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COLLECTED POEMS 




^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^kJ' 



Collected Poems 



BY 

AUSTIN DOBSON 



IN TWO VOLUMES 

Vol. I. 



Majores majora sonent 



' ' > 1 1,1 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

Publishers 






Copyright, 1895, 
By Dodd, Mead and Company. 



All rights reserved. 



n< '« 






John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 



or 

«2' 



To you T sing, whom towns immure^ 
And bonds of toil holdfast afid sure ; — 
To you across whose aching sight 
Cofne woodlands bathed in April lights 
And dreams of pastime premature. 

And you, O Sad, who still endure 
Sofne wound that only Tune can cure^ — 
To you, in watches of the night, — 
To you I sing ! 

But most to you with eyelids pure, 
Scarce witting yet of love or lure ; — 
To you, with bird-like glances bright, 
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight ; 
O English Girl, divine, deynure^ 
To YOU / sing ! 



" le ne puis teitir registre de ma vie par mes actions ; 
fortune les met trop bas: ie le tiens par mes fantasies " 

Montaigne. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Old- World Idylls: — 

A Dead Letter 3 

A Gentleman of the Old School .10 

A Gentlewoman of the Old School ...... 15 

The Ballad of Beau Brocade . . . . . . « . 20 

Une Marquise . , , . . , ' 31 

The Story of Rosina ........... 37 

Proverbs in Porcelain: — 

Prologue o . . . 51 

The Ballad ^-la-Mode ........... 53 

The Metamorphosis ............. 57 

The Song out of Season 61 

The Cap that Fits 65 

The Secrets of the Heart ..,,...... 69 

" Good-Night, Babette ! " . , » . 74 

Epilogue 78 

Vignettes in Rhyme: — 

The Drama of the Doctor's Window 81 

An Autumn Idyll 90 

A Garden Idyll ........ .... 97 

vii 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
Vignettes in Rhyme {continued). 

Tu Quoque 102 

A Dialogue from Plato , . . . 105 

The Romaunt of the Rose 108 

Love in Winter no 

Pot-Pourri 112 

Dorothy 115 

Avice 118 

The Love-Letter o , , . . 122 

The Misogynist . 125 

A Virtuoso 129 

Laissez Faire 133 

To Q. H. F. o . o . 13s 

To " Lydia Languish " 138 

A Gage d'Amour 141 

Cupid's Alley 144 

The Idyll of the Carp 148 

The Sundial 154 

An Unfinished Song . 158 

The Child-Musician .,.,.. 161 

The Cradle 162 

Before Sedan 163 

The Forgotten Grave 165 

My Landlady 166 

Before the Curtain 170 

A Nightingale in Kensington Gardens . . . . . 172 

Miscellaneous Pieces: — 

A Song of the Four Seasons .,»..... 177 

The Paradox of Time ........... 179 

viii 



m-^amaemmm 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
Mi?<^-ELLANEOUS PIECES (continued). 

To a Greek Girl i8i 

The Death of Procris 183 

The Prayer of the Swine to Circe 186 

A Case of Cameos ... 191 

The Sick Man and the Birds I94 

A Flower Song of Angiola I97 

A Song of Angiola in Heaven 200 

The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois 204 

The Mosque of the Caliph 207 

In the Belfry » o o o » c 213 

Ars Victrix ..» ...... • 214 

Essays in Old French Forms: — 

Rose Leaves ( Triolets) 219 

" Persicos Odi " 222 

The Wanderer (Rondel) 223 

" Vitas Hinnuleo " „ 224 

« On London Stones " (Rondeati) .225 

" Farewell, Renown " „ . . 226 

" More Poets Yet " „...,.... 227 

" With Pipe and Flute " „ . , . o . . . . 228 

To a June Rose , , . o . 229 

To Daffodils „ 230 

On the Hurry of this Time (Rondeau) 231 

" When Burbadge Played " „ 232 

A Greeting » ^33 

After Watteau » ..... 234 

To Ethel >» .... o 235 

" O Fon£j Bandusiae " » 236 

ix 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
Essays in Old French Forms (continued). 

" Extremum Tanain " {Rondeau) 237 

" Vixi Puellis " „ • • 238 

" When I saw you last, Rose " ( Villanelle) . . . 239 

On a Nankin Plate „ .... 241 

For a Copy of Theocritus „ . . . , 243 

" Tu ne Quaesieris " „ . . . . 245 

The Prodigals {Ballade : Irregular) 247 

On a Fan {Ballade) 249 

A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth {Ballade) 251 

A Ballad of Heroes „ 253 

The Ballad of the Thrush „ , 255 

The Ballad of the Barmecide , 257 

The Ballad of Imitation ....... 259 

The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme ....... 261 

" O Navis " „ 263 

The Dance of Death (C7/^;zi' Z^^?/^/) ,...,. 265 



Notes 27 



OLD-WORLD IDYLLS 



VOL. I, — I 



A DEAD LETTER. 

"-4 caur blesse — V ombre et le silence'* 

H. DE Balzac. 

I. 

T DREW it from its china tomb ; — 

It came out feebly scented 
With some thin ghost of past perfume 
That dust and days had lent it. 

An old, old letter, — folded still 1 

To read with due composure, 
I sought the sun-lit window-sill, 

Above the gray enclosure, 

That glimmering in the sultry haze, 

Faint-flowered, dimly shaded. 
Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, 

Bedizened and brocaded. 
3 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

A queer old place I You 'd surely say 
Some tea-board garden-maker 

Had planned it in Dutch William's day 
To please some florist Quaker, 



So trim it was. The yew-trees still, 

With pious care perverted. 
Grew in the same grim shapes ; and still 

The lipless dolphin spurted ; 



Still in his wonted state abode 
The broken-nosed Apollo ; 

And still the cypress-arbour showed 
The same umbrageous hollow. 



Only, — as fresh young Beauty gleams 

From coffee-coloured laces, 
So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams 

The fresher modern traces ; 



For idle mallet, hoop, and ball 
Upon the lawn were lying ; 

A magazine, a tumbled shawl, 

Round which the swifts were flying ; 
4 



A DEAD LETTER. 

And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, 

A heap of rainbow knitting, 
Where, blinking in her pleased repose, 

A Persian cat was sitting. 

*' A place to love in, — live, — for aye, 

If we too, like Tithonus, 
Could find some God to stretch the gray, 

Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; 

*' But now by steam we run our race. 
With buttoned heart and pocket ; 

Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace, — 
Just like an empty locket I 

^' ' The time is out of joint.' Who will, 
May strive to make it better ; 

For me, this warm old window-sill. 
And this old dusty letter." 



II. 

*'Dear Jo/i/i (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, 
For Father 's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, 

And Mother's storing Apples, — Prue and Me 
Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam : 

But we shall meet before a Week is gone, — 

* 'Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' Jo/2/1 / 

5 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

" Only till Sunday next, and then you '11 wait 
Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile — 

We can go round and catch them at the Gate, 
All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile ; 

Dear Prue won't look, and Father he '11 go on, 

And Sam's two Eyes are all for Ciss/, John ! 

^^John, she's so smart, — with every Ribbon new, 
Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy : 

As proud as proud ; and has the Vapours too, 
Just like My Lady ; — calls poor Sam a Boy, 

And vows no Sweet-heart 's worth the Thinking-on 

Till he 's past Thirty ... I know better, John I 

" My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much 
Before we knew each other, I and you ; 

And now, why, John, your least, least Finger- 
touch, 
Gives me enough to think a Summer through. 

See, for I send you Something 1 There, 'tis gone 1 

Look in this corner, — mind you find it, John ! " 



in. 

This was the matter of the note, — 

A long-forgot deposit, 
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, 

Deep in a fragrant closet, 



A DEAD LETTER. 



Piled with a dapper Dresden world, — 
Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, 

Bonzes with squat legs undercurled. 
And great jars filled with roses. 



Ah, heart that wrote 1 Ah, lips that kissed 
You had no thought or presage 

Into what keeping you dismissed 
Your simple old-world message I 



A reverent one. Though we to-day 
Distrust beliefs and powers, 

The artless, ageless things you say 
Are fresh as May's own flowers, 



Starring some pure primeval spring, 
Ere Gold had grown despotic, — 

Ere Life was yet a selfish thing. 
Or Love a mere exotic 1 



I need not search too much to find 
Whose lot it was to send it, 

That feel upon me yet the kind, 
Soft hand of her who penned it ; 
7 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

And see, through two score years of smoke, 

In by-gone, quaint apparel. 
Shine from yon time-black Norway oak 

The face of Patience Caryl, — 



The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; 

The gray gown, primly flowered ; 
The spotless, stately coif whose crest 

Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; 



And still the sweet half-solemn look 
Where some past thought was clinging, 

As when one shuts a serious book 
To hear the thrushes singing. 



I kneel to you I Of those you were. 
Whose kind old hearts grow mellow. 

Whose fair old faces grow more fair 
As Point and Flanders yellow ; 



Whom some old store of garnered grief, 

Their placid temples shading, 

Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf 

With tender tints of fading. 
8 



A DEAD LETTER. 

Peace to your soul ! You died unwed — 

Despite this loving letter. 
And what of John ? The less that 's said 

Of John, I think, the better. 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 



A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD 
\ SCHOOL. 

T T E lived in that past Georgian day, 

When men were less inclined to say 
That ^' Time is Gold," and overlay 

With toil their pleasure ; 
He held some land, and dwelt thereon, — 
Where, I forget, — the house is gone ; 
His Christian name, I think, was John, — 
His surname, Leisure. 

Reynolds has painted him, — a face 
Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, 
Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace 

Of trouble shaded ; 
The eyes are blue, the hair is drest 
In plainest way, — one hand is prest 
Deep in a flapped canary vest, 

With buds brocaded. 

He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, 
With silver buttons, — round his throat, 
A soft cravat ; — in all you note 

An elder fashion, — 

lO 



A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 

A strangeness, which, to us who shine 
In shapely hats, — whose coats combine 
All harmonies of hue and line, 

Inspires compassion. 

He lived so long ago, you see 1 
Men were untravelled then, but we, 
Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea 

With careless parting ; 
He found it quite enough for him 
To smoke his pipe in " garden trim," 
And watch, about the fish tank's brim, 

The swallows darting. 

He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, 
He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, 
He liked the drone of flies among 

His netted peaches ; 
He liked to watch the sunlight fall 
Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; 
Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call 

Beyond the beeches. 

His were the times of Paint and Patch, 

And yet no Ramelagh could match 

The sober doves that round his thatch 

Spread tails and sidled ; 
II 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

He liked their ruffling, puffed content, — 
For him their drowsy wheelings meant 
More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, 
Or Belles that bridled. 

Not that, in truth, when life began 
He shunned the flutter of the fan ; 
He too had maybe " pinked his man'* 

In Beauty's quarrel ; 
But now his ^' fervent youth " had flown 
Where lost things go ; and he was grown 
As staid and slow-paced as his own 

Old hunter, Sorrel. 

Yet still he loved the chase, and held 
That no composer's score excelled 
The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled 

Its jovial riot ; 
But most his measured words of praise 
Caressed the angler's easy ways, — 
His idly meditative days, — 

His rustic diet. 

Not that his ^' meditating" rose 
Beyond a sunny summer doze ; 
He never troubled his repose 

With fruitless prying ; 

12 



A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 

But held, as law for high and low, 
What God withholds no man can know, 
And smiled away inquiry so. 

Without replying. 

We read — alas, how much we read ! — 
The jumbled strifes of creed and creed 
With endless controversies feed 

Our groaning tables ; 
His books — and they sufficed him — were 
Cotton's " Montaigne," "The Grave " of Blair, 
A " Walton " — much the worse for wear. 

And "iEsop's Fables." 

One more, — '' The Bible." Not that he 
Had searched its page as deep as we ; 
No sophistries could make him see 

Its slender credit ; 
It may be that he could not count 
The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, — 
He liked the '' Sermon on the Mount," — 

And more, he read it. 

Once he had loved, but failed to wed, 
A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; 
His ways were far to<5 slow, he said, 
To quite forget her ; 
*3 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

And still when time had turned him gray, 
The earliest hawthorn buds in May 
Would find his lingering feet astray, 
Where first he met her. 

*' In Coelo Quies'' heads the stone 

On Leisure's grave, — now little known, 

A tangle of wild-rose has grown 

So thick across it ; 
The " Benefactions" still declare 
He left the clerk an elbow-chair, 
And " 12 Pence Yearly to Prepare 

A Christmas Posset." 

Lie softly, Leisure I Doubtless you, 
With too serene a conscience drew 
Your easy breath, and slumbered through 

The gravest issue ; 
But we, to whom our age allows 
Scarce space to wipe our weary brows. 
Look down upon your narrow house. 

Old friend, and miss you I 



»4 



A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 



A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD 
SCHOOL. 



HE lived in Georgian era too. 

Most women then, if bards be true, 
Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew 

Devout and acid. 
But hers was neither fate. She came 
Of good west-country folk, whose fame 
Has faded now. For us her name 

Is " Madam Placid." 

Patience or Prudence, — what you will, 
Some prefix faintly fragrant still 
As those old musky scents that fill 

Our grandams' pillows ; 
And for her youthful portrait take 
Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, 
Stiffly at ease beside a lake 

With swans and willows. 

1 keep her later semblance placed 
Beside my desk, — 'tis lawned and laced. 
In shadowy sanguine stipple traced 

By Bartolozzi ; 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

A placid face, in which surprise 
Is seldom seen, but yet there lies 
Some vestige of the laughing eyes 
Of arch Piozzi. 

For her e'en Time grew debonair. 
He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, 
With late-delayed faint roses there. 

And lingering dimples, 
Had spared to touch the fair old face, 
And only kissed with Vauxhall grace 
The soft white hand that stroked her lace, 

Or smoothed her wimples. 

So left her beautiful. Her age 
Was comely as her youth was sage, 
And yet she once had been the rage ; — 

It hath been hinted. 
Indeed, affirmed by one or two. 
Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) 
Inscribed a song to ^' Lovely Prue," 

Which Urban printed. 

I know she thought ; I know she felt ; 

Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt ; 

She knew as little of the Celt 

As of the Saxon ; 
i6 



A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 

I know she played and sang, for yet 
"We keep the tumble-down spinet 
To which she quavered ballads set 
By Arne or Jackson. 

Her tastes were not refined as ours ; 
She liked plain food and homely flowers, 
Refused to paint, kept early hours, 

Went clad demurely ; 
Her art was sampler-work design, 
Fireworks for her were *' vastly fine," 
Her luxury was elder-wine, — 

She loved that " purely." 

She was renowned, traditions say, 

For June conserves, for curds and whey, 

For finest tea (she called it " tay "), 

And ratafia ; 
She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, 
Could tell the sovereign wash to use 
For freckles, and was learned in brews 

As erst Medea. 

Yet studied little. She would read. 
On Sundays, " Pearson on the Creed," 
Though, as I think, she could not heed 
His text profoundly ; 

VOL. T. — 2 ly 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Seeing she chose for her retreat 
The warm west-looking window-seat, 
Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, 
You slumbered soundly. 

This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame. 
In truth, was not so much to blame ; 
The excellent divine I name 

Is scarcely stirring ; 
Her plain-song piety preferred 
Pure life to precept. If she erred. 
She knew her faults. Her softest word 

Was for the erring. 

If she had loved, or if she kept 
Some ancient memory green, or wept 
Over the shoulder-knot that slept 

Within her cuff-box, 
I know not. Only this I know. 
At sixty-five she 'd still her beau, 
A lean French exile, lame and slow. 

With monstrous snuff-box. 

Younger than she, well-born and bred. 

She 'd found him in St. Giles', half dead 

Of teaching French for nightly bed 

And daily dinners ; 
i8 



A GEhlTLElVOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 

Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride ; 
And so, henceforth, you always spied 
His rusty " pigeon-wings " beside 
Her Mechlin pinners. 

He worshipped her, you may suppose. 
She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, 
Delighted in his dry bon-mots 

And cackling laughter ; 
And when, at last, the long duet 
Of conversation and picquet 
Ceased with her death, of sheer regret 

He died soon after. 

Dear Madam Placid I Others knew 
Your worth as well as he, and threw 
Their flowers upon your coffin too, 

I take for granted. 
Their loves are lost ; but still we see 
Your kind and gracious memory 
Bloom yearly with the almond tree 

The Frenchman planted. 



19 



OLD-U/ORLD IDYLLS. 



THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." 

" Hark ! I hear the sound of coaches ! " 

Beggar's Opera. 

CEVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine: — 
That was the date of this tale of mine. 

First great George was buried and gone ; 
George the Second was plodding on. 

London then, as the " Guides'' aver, 
Shared its glories with Westminster ; 

And people of rank, to correct their ^' tone,'* 
Went out of town to Marybone. 

Those were the days of the War with Spain^ 
Porto-Bello would soon be ta'en ; 

Whitefield preached to the colliers grim, 
Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; 

Walpole talked of " a man and his price " ; 
Nobody's virtue was over-nice : — 

Those, in fine, were the brave days when 
Coaches were stopped by . . Highivaymen ! 



THE BALLAD OF ''BEAU BROCADED 

And of all the knights of the gentle trade 
Nobody bolder than " Beau Brocade." 

This they knew on the whole way down ; 
Best, — maybe, — at the '' Oak and Crown.'''' 

(Tor timorous cits on their pilgrimage 

Would "club " for a " Guard " to ride the stage ; 

And the Guard that rode on more than one 
Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.) 

Open we here on a March-day fine. 
Under the oak with the hanging sign. 

There was Barber Dick with his basin by ; 
Cobbler Joe with the patch on his eye ; 

Portly product of Beef and Beer, 
John the host, he was standing near. 

Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, 
Lumbering came the " Plymouth Fly " ; — 

Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, 
Guard in the basket armed to the teeth ; 

Passengers heavily armed inside ; 

Not the less surely the coach had been tried I 

21 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Tried I — but a couple of miles away, 

By a well-dressed man 1 — in the open day 1 

Tried successfully, never a doubt, — 
Pockets of passengers all turned out 1 

Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped, — 
Even an Ensign's wallet stripped 1 

Even a Methodist hosier's wife 

Offered the choice of her Money or Life 1 

Highwayman's manners no less polite, 

Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right ;■ 

Sorry to find the company poor, 

Hoped next time they 'd travel with more ; — 

Plucked them all at his ease, in short : — 
Such was the '''Plymouth Fly's '' report. 

Sympathy I horror ! and wonderment I 

" Catch the Villain I " (But Nobody went.) 

Hosier's wife led into the Bar ; 

(That 's where the best strong waters are I) 

Followed the tale of the hundred-and-one 
Things that Somebody ought to have done. 

22 



THE BALLAD OF ''BEAU BROCADE:* 

Ensign (of Bragg's) made a terrible clangour : 
But for the Ladies had drawn his hanger ! 

Robber, of course, was " Beau Brocade"; 
Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid. 

Devonshire Dolly, plump and red, 
Spoke from the gallery overhead ; — 

Spoke it out boldly, staring hard : — 
" Why did n't you shoot then, George the 
Guard ? " 

Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute : — 

" George the Guard, why did n't you shoot? " 

Portly John grew pale and red, 
(John was afraid of her, people said ; ) 

Gasped that " Dolly was surely cracked,'* 
(John was afraid of her — that's a fact 1) 

George the Guard grew red and pale, 
Slowly finished his quart of ale : — 

*' Shoot ? Why — Rabbit him ! — did n't he 

shoot > " 
Muttered — ** The Baggage was far too 'cute ! " 

23 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

" Shoot } Why he 'd flashed the pan in his eye I " 
Muttered — " She 'd pay for it by and by ! " 
Further than this made no reply. 

Nor could a further reply be made, 

For George was in league with " Beau Brocade " I 

And John the Host, in his wakefullest state, 
Was not — on the whole — immaculate. 

But nobody's virtue was over-nice 

When Walpole talked of " a man and his price '' ; 

And wherever Purity found abode, 
'Twas certainly not on a posting road. 

II. 

" Forty" followed to "Thirty-nine," 
Glorious days of the Hanover line ! 

Princes were born, and drums were banged ; 
Now and then batches of Highwaymen hanged, 

" Glorious news I " — from the Spanish Main; 
Porto-Bello at last was ta'en. 

" Glorious news ! " — for the liquor trade ; 

Nobody dreamed of " Beau Brocade." 

24 



THE BALLAD OF ''BEAU BROCADED 

People were thinking of Spanish Crowns; 
Money was coming from seaport towns I 

Nobody dreamed of " Beau Brocade," 
(Only Dolly the Chambermaid I ) 

Blessings on Vernon ! Fill up the cans ; 
Mom/ was coming in ^^Flys'' and '^Va/is." 

Possibly, John the Host had heard ; 
Also, certainly, George the Guard. 

And Dolly had possibly tidings, too. 
That made her rise from her bed anew, 

Plump as ever, but stern of eye, 

With a fixed intention to warn the ''F//." 

Lingering only at John his door, 
Just to make sure of a jerky snore ; 

Saddling the gray mare. Dumpling Star ; 
Fetching the pistol out of the bar ; 

(The old horse-pistol that, they say, 
Came from the battle of Malplaquet ;) 

Loading with powder that maids would use, 
Even in ^' Forty," to clear the flues ; 
25 



OLD- WORLD IDYLLS. 

And a couple of silver buttons, the Squire 
Gave her, avi^ay in Devonshire. 

These she wadded — for w^ant of better — 
With the B — sh-— p of L — nd— n's '* Pastoral 
Letter"; 

Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, 
Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. 

Thus equipped and accoutred, Dolly 
Clattered away to ^^ Exciseman s Folly'' ; — 

Such was the name of a ruined abode, 
Just on the edge of the London road. 

Thence she thought she might safely try, 
As soon as she saw it, to warn the "F//." 

But, as chance fell out, her rein she drew, 
As the Beau came cantering into the view. 

By the light of the moon she could see him drest 
In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest ; 

And under his silver-gray surtout, 
The laced, historical coat of blue, 

That he wore when he went to London-Spam, 

And robbed Sir Mungo Mucklethraw. 

26 



THE BALLAD OF ''BEAU BROCADE:' 

Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, 

(Trembling a little, but not afraid,) 

" Stand and Deliver, O ' Beau Brocade ' 1 " 

But the Beau rode nearer, and would not speak, 
For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek ; 

And a spavined mare with a rusty hide ; 
And a girl with her hand at her pocket-side. 

So never a word he spoke as yet, 

For he thought 'twas a freak of Meg or Bet ; — 

A freak of the ''Rose'' or the ''Rummer'' set. 

Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, 

(Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) 

*' Stand and Deliver, O ' Beau Brocade' I " — 

Firing then, out of sheer alarm, 
Hit the Beau in the bridle-arm. 

Button the first went none knows where, 
But it carried away his solitaire ; 

Button the second a circuit made, 
Glanced in under the shoulder blade ; — 
Down from the saddle fell " Beau Brocade " I 

Down from the saddle and never stirred I — 

Dolly grew white as a Windsor curd. 

27 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS, 

Slipped not less from the mare, and bound 
Strips of her kirtle about his wound. 

Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, 
Fettered his ankles — tenderly. 

Jumped on his chestnut, Bet the fleet 
(Called after Bet of Portugal Street) ; 

Came like the wind to the old Inn-door ; — 
Roused fat John from a three-fold snore ; — 

Vowed she 'd 'peach if he misbehaved . . . 
Briefly, the ''^Plymouth Fly''' was saved I 

Staines and Windsor were all on fire : — 
Dolly was wed to a Yorkshire squire ; 
Went to Town at the K — g's desire 1 

But whether His M — j — sty saw her or not, 
Hogarth jotted her down on the spot ; 

And something of Dolly one still may trace 
In the fresh contours of his *^ Milkmaid's'' face. 

George the Guard fled over the sea : 
John had a fit — of perplexity ; 

Turned King's evidence, sad to state ; — 

But John was never immaculate. 

28 



THE BALLAD OF " BEAU BROCADEr 

As for the Beau, he was duly tried, 

When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide ; 

Served — for a day — as the last of " sights," 
To the world of St. James' s-Street and " White's ", 

Went on his way to Tyburn Tree, 
With a pomp befitting his high degree. 

Every privilege rank confers : — 
Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's ; 

Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar ; 

Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car — 

(" t " is omitted where Heroes are I ) 

Every one knows the speech he made ; 
Swore that he " rather admired the Jade 1 " — 

Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat : 
Talked to the Chaplain after that ; 

Turned to the Topsman undismayed . . . 
This was the finish of " Beau Brocade " I 



And this IS the Ballad that seemed to hide 

In the leaves of a dusty " Londoner's Guide " ; 

29 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

'' Humbly Inscribed (with curls and tails) 
By the Author to Frederick, Prince of Wales 

" Published by Francis and Oliver Pine ; 

Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign. 
Seventeen-Hundred'and-Thirty-NlneJ''' 



30 



UNE MARQUISE. 
UNE MARQUISE. 

A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE. 
^ Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amoury 

MOLIERE. 

I. 

A S you sit there at your ease, 
'^ O Marquise I 

And the men flock round your knees 

Thick as bees. 
Mute at every word you utter, 
Servants to your least frill flutter, 

^^ Belle Marquise ! " — 
As you sit there growing prouder, 

And your ringed hands glance and go. 
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder, 

And your " beaux yeux " flash and glow ; — 
Ah, you used them on the Painter, 

As you know, 
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter. 

Bowing low, 
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy 
That each sitter was not Circe, 
Or at least he told you so ; — 
3^ 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Growing proud, I say, and prouder 
To the crowd that come and go, 
Dainty Deity of Powder, 

Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, 
As you sit where lustres strike you, 

Sure to please. 
Do we love you most, or like you, 

" Belle Marquise V 

II. 

You are fair ; O yes, we know it 

Well, Marquise : 
For he swore it, your last poet. 

On his knees ; 
And he called all heaven to witness 
Of his ballad and its fitness, 

''Belle Marquise!'' - 
You were everything in tre 
(With exception of s^vdre), — 
You were cruelle and rebelle, 
With the rest of rhymes as well ; 
You were '' Reine,'" and " Mbre d'Amour''; 

You were " V^nus d. Cythhre'' ; 
*' Sappho mise en Pompadour^'' 

And " Minerve en Parabdre "; 

You had every grace of heaven 

In your most angelic face, 
32 



UNE MARQUISE. 

With the nameless finer leaven 

Lent of blood and courtly race ; 
And he added, too, in duty, 
Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; 
And La Valli^re's yeux veloutds 

Followed these ; 
And you liked it, when he said it 

(On his knees), 
And you kept it, and you read it, 

" Belle Marquise! 

in. 

Yet with us your toilet graces 

Fail to please, 
And the last of your last faces, 

And your mise ; 
For we hold you just as real, 

" Belle Marquise!' 
As your Berbers and Bergdres, 
lies d' Amour and Batelldres ; 
As your pares, and your Versailles, 
Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles ; 
As your Naiads and your trees ; — 
Just as near the old ideal 

Calm and ease. 
As the Venus there, by Coustou, 
That a fan would make quite flighty, 
VOL. I. — 3 33 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Is to her the gods were used to, — 
Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, 

Sprung from seas. 
You are just a porcelain trifle, 

*' Belle Marquise !^^ 
Just a thing of puffs and patches, 
Made for madrigals and catches, 
Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, 

O Marquise I 
Just a pinky porcelain trifle, 

*' Belle Marquise! 
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, 
Quick at verbal point and parry. 
Clever, doubtless ; — but to marry, 

No, Marquise 1 



IV. 



For your Cupid, you have clipped him, 
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, 
And with chapeau-bras equipped him, 

''Belle Marquise r' 
Just to arm you through your wife-time, 
And the languors of your life-time, 

''Belle Marquise!'" 
Say, to trim your toilet tapers. 
Or, — to twist your hair in papers, 

34 



UNE MARQUISE. 

Or, — to wean you from the vapours ; — 

As for these, 

You are worth the love they give you, 

Till a fairer face outlive you, 

Or a younger grace shall please ; 

Till the coming of the crows' feet, 

And the backward turn of beaux' feet, 

''Belle Marquise!''' 

Till your frothed-out life's commotion 

Settles down to Ennui's ocean, 

Or a dainty sham devotion, 

''Belle Marquise!'' 



V. 

No : we neither like nor love you, 

"Belle Marquise !" 
Lesser lights we place above you, — 

Milder merits better please. 
We have passed from Philosophe-dom 

Into plainer modern days, — 
Grown contented in our oafdom. 

Giving grace not all the praise ; 
And, en partant, Arsinod, — 

Without malice whatsoever, — 
We shall counsel to our Chloe 

To be rather good than clever ; 
3.S 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

For we find it hard to smother 

Just one little thought, Marquise 1 
Wittier perhaps than any other, — 
You were neither Wife nor Mother, 

*' Belle Marquise I 



36 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 



THE STORY OF ROSINA. 

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANgOIS BOUCHER. 
" On ne badine pas avec VamourJ'^ 

nPHE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe 
creeping, 
Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, 
To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping 

Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps 
But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; 
" He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in 
fact. 

One hardly needs the ^^ Peint par Frangois 
Boucher.''' 

All the sham life comes back again, — one sees 
Alcdves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher, 

Patches and Ruffles, Rouds and Marquises ; 
The little great, the infinite small thing 
That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. 

For these were yet the days of halcyon weather,— 
A '' Martin's summer", when the nation swam, 

Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, 
Down the full tide of jest and epigram ; — 

A careless time, when France's bluest blood 

Beat to the tune of '^After us the flood." 

37 



OLD-^VORLD IDYLLS. 

Plain Roland still was placidly '' inspecting," 
Not now Camille had stirred the Caf^ Foy; 

Marat was young, and Guiliotin dissecting, 
Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; 

No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring : — 

This was the summer — when Grasshoppers sing. 

And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures. 
Female and male, that tilled the earth, and 
wrung 
Want from the soil ; — lean things with livid 
features. 
Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung: 
These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bon- 

homme 
Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. 

But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, — 

Rose-water Raphael, — en couleur de rose, 
The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise 
sainted. 
Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon- 
mots ; — 
Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove 
Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered 
grove. 

A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo 
Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendre ; 

3^ 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 

Whose greatest grace was japes ci la Camargo, 
Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre ; — 
Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose foot- 
steps fell 
To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel ; — 

Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, 
As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her 
not, 

Made of his work a land of languid Maying, 
Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; — 

A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, 

Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. 

Once, only once, — perhaps the last night's revels 
Palled in the after-taste, — our Boucher sighed 
For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, 
Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear- 
eyed ; 
Flung down his palette like a weary man, 
And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte- 
Anne. 

Wherefore, we know not; but, at times, far nearer 
Things common come, and lineaments half-seen 
Grow in a moment magically clearer ; — 

Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called "too 
green " 

39 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Rose and rebuked him, or the earth " ill-lighted " 
Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. 

But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, 
Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal ; 

Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice. 
Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ; 

Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, 

Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. 

So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some 
Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, 

Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, 
Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : — 

Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, 

But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and 
pretty. 

Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken 
Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; 

Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken, 
Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming ; 

Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather ; 

Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. 

Sloes were her eyes ; but her soft cheeks were 

peaches, 

Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red 

40 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 

Seems to have burned right through the skin, and 
reaches 
E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread 
Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, 
And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped 
down. 

As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased 
dancing, 

As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse 
Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing 

Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. 
Then a shrill mother rose upon the view ; 
" CeriseSy M'sieu) RosiiUy d4pechei-poiis ! '' 

Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, 
Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. 

The painter, watching the suspended cherries. 
Never had seen such little fingers play ; — 

As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder ; 

Low in his heart a whisper said " I 've found her." 

" Woo first the mother, if you 'd win the 
daughter ! " 
Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame 
Mdre, 
Almost with tears of suppliance besought her 
Leave to immortalize a face so fair ; 

41 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway 
Yoici Rosina, — standing at his gateway. 

Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter 
Rang through the studio as the girlish face 

Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after 
Showed like an Omphale in lion's case ; 

Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew 

Pipes to the light its clear " Rdvellle\-vous.''' 

Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, 
Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, 

Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, 
Mute little moods of misery and wrong ; 

Only a child, of Nature's rarest making. 

Wistful and sweet, — and with a heart for breaking 1 

Day after day the little loving creature 
Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt, 

Day after day, the old theatric Nature 

Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt 

Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, 

Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. 

As for the girl, she turned to her new being, — 

Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; 

Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing ; 

Grew as the flower on which the sun-rays fall ; 

42 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 

Loved if you will ; she never named it so : 
Love comes unseen, — we only see it go. 

There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, 
Slim, — a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, 

Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches 
Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. 

This was no other than Rosina surely ; — 

None Boucher knew could else have looked so 
purely. 

But forth her Story, for I will not tarry : 
Whether he loved the little " nut-brown maid " ; 

If, of a truth, he counted this to carry 
Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, 

Nothing we know, but only that before 

More had been done, a finger tapped the door. 

Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 

'Twas a young girl — " une pauvre fille^'' she 
said, 
^' They had been growing poorer all the summer ; 

Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; 
Bread was so dear, and, — oh 1 but want was bitter, 
Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter.^ 

Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a 
minute : 
Yes, she was pretty ; and her face beside 

43 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Shamed her poor clothing by a something in 
it,— 
Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; 
This was no common offer it was certain ; — 
" Alle^, Rosina 1 sit behind the curtain." 

Meanwhile the Painter, with a mixed emotion, 
Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, 

Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; 
Last when his sitter left him on his knees, 

Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, — 

Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. 

Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit 

Still in the old traditionary way. 
Power to enjoy — with yet a rarer merit, 

Power to forget I Our Boucher rose, I say. 
With hands still prest to heart, with pulses 

throbbing. 
And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. 

*' This was no model, M'sieu, but a lady." 
Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. 
^^Est-ce que vous Vaimei I " Never answer made 
he! 
Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! 

44 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 

** Est-ce que vous Vaime\ !■ " sobbed Rosina's sor- 
row. 

*^Boii!'' murmured Boucher; *' she will come 
to-morrow." 

How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry 
Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the 
chase, 

Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry. 
Following not less with unrelenting face. 

Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, 

Woe to the Fawn I There is no way to flee. 

Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, 

Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. 
Nothing remained but those gray shades that 
thicken. 
Cloud and the cold, — the loneliness — the 
wind. 
Only a little by the door she lingers, — 
Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. 

No, not a sign. Already with the Painter 
Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; 

Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, 
Paled to the old sick Artifice again. 

Seeing Rosina going out to die. 

How should he know what Fame had passed 

him by } 

45 



OLD-IVORLD IDYLLS. 

Going to die I For who shall waste in sadness, 
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, 
Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's 
gladness, 
Lose the round life that only Love makes 
bright : 
There is no succour if these things are taken. 
None but Death loves the lips by Love for- 
saken. 

So, in a little, when those Two had parted, — 
Tired of himself, and weary as before, 

Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, 
Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. 

** Ah, the poor child ! " the neighbours cry of her, 

*' Mode, M'sieu, morte ! On dit, — des peines de 
cceur I " 

Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, 
Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, — 

Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him 
With a vague sense of something priceless gone ; 

Then, — for at best 'twas but the empty type. 

The husk of man with which the days were ripe, — 

Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, 

You, her own sister, that with airy ease. 

Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, 

Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, 
46 



THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 

Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; 

A pleasant passage — d Sainte Guillotine ! 

As for Rosina, — for the quiet sleeper, 

Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, 

If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her. 
Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, 

Nothing we know, — but that her heart is cold, 

Poor beating heart 1 And so the story's told. 



47 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

" Rien ett relief.'* 



VOL. I. — 4 



PROLOGUE. 



A SSUME that we are friends. Assume 
A common taste for old costume, 
Old pictures, — books. Thendream ussitting. 
Us two, — in some soft-lighted room. 



Outside, the wind ; — the " wa/s are mire.'' 
We, with our faces towards the fire, 

Finished the feast not full but fittingy 
Watch the light-leaping flames aspire. 

Silent at first, in time we glow ; 
Discuss *' eclectics,'' high and low ; 

Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing 
The fancies of Detroy, Moreau ; 

''Reveils" and ''Couchers," ''Balls" and '*FHes"; 
Anon we glide to ^* crocks" and plates, 
Grow eloquent on gla^e and classing, 
And half-pathetic over ^^ states." 

51 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

Then I produce my Pri:{e. in truth ; — 
Six groups in Sevres, fresh as Youth, 

And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, 
{Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth !) 

And so we fall to why and how 
The fragile figures smile and how ; 

Divine, at length, the fable under , . , 
Thus grew the " Scenes'' that follow now. 



52 



THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. 
THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. 

" Tout vient d. point h qui sait attendre." 

Scene. — A Boudoir Louis-Quin:^e, painted with, 
Cupids shooting at Butterflies. 

The Countess. The Baron (her cousin and 
suitor). 

The Countess {looking up from her work). 
"D ARON, you doze. 

The Baron (closing his book). 

I, Madame ? No. 
I wait your order — Stay or Go. 

The Countess. 
Which means, I think, that Go or Stay 
Affects you nothing, either way. 

The Baron. 
Excuse me, — By your favour graced, 
My inclinations are effaced. 

The Countess. 
Or much the same. How keen you grow 1 

You must be reading Marivaux. 
53 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

The Baron. 
Nay, — 'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire. 

The Countess. 

Then read me one. We 've time to spare 
If I can catch the clock-face there, 
'Tis barely eight. 

The Baron. 

What shall it be, — 
A tale of woe, or perfidy ? 

The Countess. 

Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes : 
But perfidy, of course, one knows. 

The Baron (reads), 

** * Ah, Phillis ! cruel PhilUs ! 

(I heard a Shepherd sa/,) 
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet 

You hid me — Go my Way I ' 

'' ' Ah, Colin! foolish Colin/ 

(The Maiden answered so,) 
If that be All, the III is small, 

I close them — You may go ! ' 
54 



THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. 

*' But when her Eyes she opened^ 

(Although the Sun it shone,) 
She found the Shepherd had not stirred — 

' Because the Light was gone !' 

^^ Ah, Cupid/ wanton Cupid/ 

^Twas ever thus your Way : 
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings, 

You find Excuse to stay / " 

The Countess. 

Famous I He earned whatever he got : — 
But there 's some sequel, is there not ? 

The Baron (turning the page). 
I think not. — No. Unless 'tis this : 
My fate is far more hard than his ; — 
In fact, your Eyes — 

The Countess. 

Now, that 's a breach I 
Your bond is — not to make a speech. 
And we must start — so call Justine. 
I know exactly what you mean ! — 
Give me your arm — 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

The Baron. 

If, in return, 
Countess, I could your hand but earn I 

The Countess. 
I thought as much. This comes, you see, 
Of sentiment, and Arcady, 
Where vows are hung on every tree. . . , 

The Baron (offering his arm, ivilh a low bow). 
And no one dreams — of Perfidy. 



56 



THE METAMORPHOSIS. 



THE METAMORPHOSIS. 

" On s'enrichit quand on dort." 

Scene. — A high stone Seat in an Alley of dipped 
Lime-trees. 

The Abbe Tirili. Monsieur L'Etoile. 

The Abbe (writing) . 

" y^HIS shepherdess Dorine adored — " 

What rhyme is next? Implored} — ignored) 
Poured) — soared) — afford) That facile Dunce, 
L'Etoile, would cap the line at once. 
'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose 
We take a meditative doze. 

(Sleeps. By-and-hy his paper falls.) 



M. L'Etoile (approaching from the back). 
Some one before me. What I 'tis you, 
Monsieur the Scholar } Sleeping too 1 

(Picks up the fluttering paper.) 
More ^^TaleSy"" of course. One can't refuse 
To chase so fugitive a Muse ! 

57 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAlhl. 

Verses are public^ too, that fly 
" Cum prlvilegio '' ^-.Zephyri / 

{Reads.) 
*' Clitander and Dorine." Insane I 
He fancies he 's a La Fontaine I 
*' In early Days, the Gods, ive find, 
Paid casual- Visits to Mankind ; — 
At least, authentic Records say so 
In Publius Ovidius Naso.'' 
(Three names for one. This passes all. 
'Tis " furiously " classical !) 
"A^o doubt their Purpose oft ivould he 
Some 'Nodus dlgnus Vindice ' ; 
' On dit,' not less, these earthward Tours 
Were mainly Matters of Amours. 
AndWoeto him whose luckless Flame 
Impeded that Olympic Game ; 
Ere he could say an ' Ave ' o'er, 
They changed him — like a Louis-d'or.''^ 
C Aves,' and current coinage I O 1 — 
O shade of Nicolas Boileau 1) 
^'Bird, Beast, or River he became: 
With Women it was much the same. 
In Ovid Case to Case succeeds ; 
But Names the Reader never reads." 
(That is, Monsieur the Abb6 feels 
His quantities are out at heels I) 

58 



THE METAMORPHOSIS. 

^^ Suffices that, for this our Tale^ 
There dwelt in a Thesruiian Valey 
Of Tales like this the frequent ScenCj 
A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. 
Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she ; — 
In short, — the whole Artillery, 
Her Beauty made some local Stir ; — 
Men marked it. So did Jupiter. 
This Shepherdess Dorine adored. ..." 
Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured — 
(He 's scrawled them here !) We '11 sum in brief 
His fable on his second leaf. 
(Writes.) 
There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote : —^ 
*' L'Etoile's is but a mock-bird's note.'' [^Exit. 

The Abbe (waking). 
Implored's the word, I think. But where, — 
Where is my paper ? Ah 1 'tis there ! 
Ehl what? 

(Reads.) 

The Metamorphosis. 
(not in Ovid.) 
** The Shepherdess Dorine adored 

The Shepherd-Boy Clitander; 
But Jove himself, Olympus' Lord, 
The Shepherdess Dorine adored. 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

Our Ahbd's Aid the Pair Implored; — 
And changed to Goose and Gander y 
The Shepherdess Dorine adored 
The Shepherd-Bof Clitander ! " 

L'Etoile, — by all the Muses I 

Peste ! 
He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. 
No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day; 
Next time 'twill be my turn to play. 



60 



THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. 
THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. 

" Point de culte sans mystire" 

Scene. — A Corridor in a Chdteau, with Busts and 
Venice chandeliers. 

Monsieur L'Etoile. Two Voices. 

M. Vt^TOiLE {carrying a Rose), 

'T^HIS is the place. Mutine said here. 

"Through the Mancini room, and near 
The fifth Venetian chandelier. . ." 
The fifth ? — She knew there were but four ; — 
Still, here's the busto of the Moor. 

(Humming.) 

Tra-ldy tra-la! If Buou wake, 
He '11 bark, no doubt^ and spoil my shake 1 
I '11 tap, I think. One can't mistake ; 
This surely is the door. 

(Sings softly.) 

** When Jove, the Skies' Director, 

First sam you sleep of yore. 

He cried aloud for Nectar, 
6i 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

'■The Nectar quickly pour, — 
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!'' 

(No sound. I '11 tap once more.) 

(Sings again.) 
** Then came the Sire Apollo, 

He past you where you lay ; 
* Come, Dian, rise and follow 
The dappled Hart to slay, — 
The rapid Hart to slay.' " 

(A rustling within.) 

(Coquette I She heard before.) 

{Sings again.) 

^^ And urchin Cupid after 
Beside the Pillow curled, 

He whispered you with Laughter j 
' Awake and witch the World, — 
O Venus, witch the World T" 

(Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, 
I think, than Monsieur TAbbe's verse.) 

*'So waken, waken, waken^ 

O You, whom we adore, 
Where Gods can be mistaken 

Mere Mortals must be more, — 

Poor Mortals must be more ! " 
62 



THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. 
(That merits an encore.) 

** So waken, waken, waken ! 
O YOU whom we adore ! " 

(An energetic Voice.) 
Tis thou, Antoine ? Ah, Addle-pate I 
Ah, Thief of Valet, always late 1 
Have I not told thee half-past eight 
A thousand times 1 

(Great agitation.) 

But wait, — but wait, 

M. L'Etoile (stupefied). 

Just Skies 1 What hideous roar I — 
What lungs I The infamous Soubrette 1 
This is a turn I sha'n't forget : — 
To make me sing my chansonnette 

Before old Jourdain's door 1 



(Retiring slowly.) 
And yet, and yet, — it can't be she. 
They prompted her. Who can it be ? 

(A second Voice.) 
It was the Abbe Ti — ri — li I 

63 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

(In a mocking falsetto.) 
*' Where Gods can be mistaken, 
Mere Poets must be more, — 
Bad Poets must be more.'' 



64 



THE CAP THAT FITS. 
THE CAP THAT FITS. 

" Qztt seme epities rHaille dechaux." 

Scene. — A Salon with blue and white Panels. 
Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a 
Terrace. 

HORTENSE. ArMANDE. MoNSIEUR LoYAL. 

HoRTENSE (behind her fan.) 
"M" OT young, I think. 

Armande (raising her eye-glass). 

And faded, too ! — 
Quite faded I Monsieur, what say you } 

M. Loyal. 
Nay, — I defer to you. In truth, 
To me she seems all grace and youth. 

Hortense. 
Graceful > You think it? What, with hands 
That hang like this (with a gesture). 

Armande. 

And how she stands .' 

VOL. L — 5 65 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

M. Loyal. 
Nay, — I am wrong again. I thought 
Her air delightfully untaught 1 

HORTENSE. 

But you amuse me — 

M. Loyal. 

Still her dress, — 
Her dress at least, you must confess — 

Armande. 
Is odious simply I Jacotot 
Did not supply that lace, I know ; 
And where, I ask, has mortal seen 
A hat unfeathered I 

HORTENSE. 

Edged with green 1 

M. Loyal. 
The words remind me. Let me say 
A Fable that I heard to-day. 
Have I permission ? 

Both {ivith enthusiasm) . 

Monsieur, pray ! 
66 



THE CAP THAT FITS. 

M. Loyal. 

** Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise 

The Ladys Name I thus disguise), 

Dying of Ennui, once decided, — 

Much on Resource herself she prided, — 

To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies 

On that momentous Enterprise. 

Whether to Petit or Legros, 

I know not : only this I know ; — 

Head-dresses then, of any Fashion, 

Bore Names of Quality or Passion. 

Myrtilla tried them, almost all : 

' Prudence,' she felt, was somewhat small; 

' Retirement ' seemed the Eyes to hide ; 

' Content.' at once, she cast aside. 

' Simplicity,' — 'twas out of place ; 

' Devotion,' for an older face ; 

Briefly, Selection smaller grew, 

' Vexatious /' odious ! — none would do I 

Then, on a sudden, she espied 

One that she thought she had not tried : 

Becoming, rather, — ' edged with green,' — 

Roses in yellow. Thorns between. 

' Quick ! Bring me that ! ' 'Tis brought. * Complete, 

Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,' 

In all the Tones. ' And this you call — ) ' 

' " Ill-Nature/' Madame. It fits all.' " 

67 



PROyERBS IN PORCELAIN. 
HORTENSE. 

A thousand thanks 1 So naively turned I 

Armande. 
So useful too ... to those concerned 1 
'Tis yours > 

M. Loyal. 

Ah no, — some cynic wit's ; 
And called (I think) — 

{Placing his hat upon his breast), 

"The Cap that Fits." 



6S 



THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 



THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 

" Le cceur mine oh il va.** 

Scene. — A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle. 

Ninette. Ninon. 

Ninette. 
'yniS way — 

Ninon. 
No, this way — 

Ninette. 

This way, then. 
(They enter the Chalet.) 
You are as changing, Child, — as Men. 

Ninon. 
But are they ? Is it true, I mean > 
Who said it ? 

Ninette. 
Sister S^raphine. 

She was so pious and so good, 
69 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 
And such poor little feet, — all bare I 
Her name was Eugenie la Fere. 
She used to tell us, — moonlight nights, — 
When I was at the Carmelites. 

Ninon. 
Ah, then it must be right. And yet, 
Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — 

Ninette. 
But what ? — 

Ninon. 
Suppose it were not so ? 
Suppose there jpere true men, you know 1 

Ninette. 
And then > 

Ninon. 
Why, — if that could occur. 
What kind of man should you prefer.^ 

Ninette. 
What looks, you mean ? 

Ninon. 

Looks, voice and all. 
70 



THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 

Ninette. 
Well, as to that, he must be tall, 
Or say, not ** tall," — of middle size ; 
And next, he must have laughing eyes, 
And a hook-nose, — with, underneath, 

1 what a row of sparkling teeth I — 

Ninon {touching her cheek suspiciously). 
Has he a scar on this side ? 

Ninette. 

Hush I 
Someone is coming. No ; a thrush : 

1 see it swinging there. 

Ninon. 

Go on. 

Ninette. 
Then he must fence, (ah, look. Vis gone 1) 
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
** Love was a Shepherd *' : — everything 
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. 

Ninon. 
Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair. . . 
I mean he should have ; then an air 
71 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; 

A little royale on the chin ; 

And such a pale, high brow. And then, 

He is a prince of gentlemen ; — 

He, too, can ride and fence, and write 

Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 

No worse for that — 

Ninette. 

I know your man. 

Ninon. 

And I know yours. But you '11 not tell, — 
Swear it ! 

Ninette. 
I swear upon this fan, — 
My Grandmother's 1 

Ninon. 

And I, I swear 
On this old turquoise reliquaire, — 
My great, — great Grandmother's 1 I — 
(After a pause.) 

Ninette f 
I feel so sad. 

72 



THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 

Ninette. 

I too. But why > 

NlNON^ 

Alas, I know not I 

Ninette (ivith a sigh). 

Nor do I, 



73 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN, 



*' GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTEl" 

" Si vieillesse pouvait I — " 

Scene. — A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire 
Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman. 

Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette. 

M. Vieuxbois {turning querulouslf). 

T^AY of my life I Where can she get? 

Babette 1 I say 1 Babette I — Babette 1 

Babette (entering hurriedly). 

Coming, M'sieu' I If M'sieu' speaks 
So loud, he won't be well for weeks 1 

M. Vieuxbois. 
Where have you been ? 

Babette. 

Why M'sieu' knows : — 
April ! . . . Ville d'Avray I . . . Ma'am'selle Rose 1 

M. Vieuxbois. 

Ah I I am old, — and I forget. 
Was the place growing green, Babette? 

74 



*' GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!" 

Babette. 
But of a greenness I — yes, M'sieu' I 
And then the sky so blue ! — so blue ! 
And when I dropped my immortelle, 
How the birds sang I 

{Lifting her apron to her eyes.) 

This poor Ma'am'selle 

M. ViEUXBOIS. 

You 're a good girl, Babette, but she, — 

She was an Angel, verily. 

Sometimes I think I see her yet 

Stand smiling by the cabinet ; 

And once, I know, she peeped and laughed 

Betwixt the curtains . . . 

Where 's the draught ? 
{She gives him a cup.) 
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette; — 
Sing me your Norman chansonnette. 

Babette (sings), 
^'Once at the Angelas 

(Ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious 

Came to my Bed; 
Angels in blue and white 
Crowned on the Head.''' 
75 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 

M. ViEUXBOis (droipsily). 
" She was an Angel '\ . . " Once she laughed '\ . . 
What, was I dreaming ? 

Where 's the draught ? 

Babette (showing the empty cup). 
The draught, M'sieu'? 

M. ViEUXBOIS. 

How I forget 1 
I am so old ! But sing, Babette 1 

Babette (sings). 
*' One ivas the Friend I left 

Stark in the Snow ; 
One was the Wife that died 

Long, — long ago ; 
One was the Love I lost . . . 

How could she know I '* 

M. ViEUXBOIS (murmuring). 

Ah, Paul I ... old Paul 1 . . . Eulalie too I 
And Rose . . . And O I "the sky so blue 1 " 

Babette (sings). 

** One had my Mother's eyes^ 

Wistful and mild ; 
76 



" GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE ! " 

One had my Father's face ; 

One was a Child : 
All of them bent to me, — 

Bent down and smiled T' 
(He is asleep I) 

M. ViEUXBOis (almost inaudibly'), 
** How I forget I " 
** I am so old 1 "...*' Good-night, Babette I 



77 



PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 



EPILOGUE. 

T T EIGHO I how chill the evenings get ! 

Good-night, Ninon 1 — good-night, Ninette 1 
Your little Play is played and finished ; — 
Go back, then, to your Cabinet! 

Loyal, L'Etoile I no more to-day! 
Alas ! they heed not what we say: 

They smile with ardour undiminished ; 
But we, — we are not always gay ! 



73 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S 
WINDOW. 

IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE. 

" A tedious brief scene ofyoting Pyramus, 
And his love Thisbe ; very tragical mirth." 

Midsummer-Night's Dream. 

Prologue. 

'' T 1 rELL, I must wait 1 " The Doctor's room, 

Where I used this expression, 
Wore the severe official gloom 

Attached to that profession ; 
Rendered severer by a bald 

And skinless Gladiator, 
Whose raw robustness first appalled 

The entering spectator. 

No one would call "The Lancet" gay, — 

Few could avoid confessing 
That Jones, " On Muscular Decay," 

Is, as a rule, depressing : 
VOL. I. — 6 Si 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

So, leaving both, to change the scene, 
I turned toward the shutter, 

And peered out vacantly between 
A water-butt and gutter. 

Below, the Doctor's garden lay, 

If thus imagination 
May dignify a square of clay 

Unused to vegetation. 
Filled with a dismal-looking swing — 

That brought to mind a gallows — 
An empty kennel, mouldering, 

And two dyspeptic aloes. 

No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung, 

About the place deserted ; 
Only across the swing-board hung 

A battered doll, inverted. 
Which sadly seemed to disconcert 

The vagrant cat that scanned it. 
Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt, 

But failed to understand it. 

A dreary spot I And yet, I own, 

Half hoping that, perchance, it 

Might, in some unknown way, atone 

For Jones and for '' The Lancet," 
82 



DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S IVINDOIV. 

I watched ; and by especial grace, 

Within this stage contracted, 
Saw presently before my face 

A classic story acted. 

Ah, World of ours, are you so gray 

And weary, World, of spinning, 
That you repeat the tales to-day 

You told at the beginning ? 
For lo I the same old myths that made 

The early " stage successes," 
Still "hold the boards," and still are played, 

" With new effects and dresses." 

Small, lonely " three-pair-backs" behold, 

To-day, Alcestis dying ; 
To-day, in farthest Polar cold, 

Ulysses' bones are lying ; 
Still in one's morning "Times" one reads 

How fell an Indian Hector; 
Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, 

Briseis' next protector ; — 

Still Menelaus brings, we see, 

His oft-remanded case on ; 
Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle 

Bewails a faithless Jason ; 

83 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 

And here, the Doctor's sill beside, 

Do I not now discover 
A Thisbe, whom the walls divide 

From Pyramus, her lover? 



Act the First. 

Act I. began. Some noise had scared 

The cat, that like an arrow 
Shot up the wall and disappeared ; 

And then, across the narrow, 
Unweeded path, a small dark thing, 

Hid by a garden-bonnet, 
Passed wearily towards the swing, 

Paused, turned, and climbed upon itc 

A child of five, with eyes that were 

At least a decade older, 
A mournful mouth, and tangled hair 

Flung careless round her shoulder, 
Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock, 

Whose black, uncomely rigour 
Sardonically seemed to mock 

The plaintive, slender figure. 

What was it ? Something in the dress 
That told the girl unmothered ; 
§4 



DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S IVINDOIV. 

Or was it that the merciless 

Black garb of mourning smothered 

Life and all light : — but rocking so, 
In the dull garden-corner, 

The lonely swinger seemed to grow 
More piteous and forlorner. 

Then, as I looked, across the wall 

Of " next-door's " garden, that is — 
To speak correctly — through its tall 

Surmounting fence of lattice. 
Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair, 

Ripe lips, half drawn asunder, 
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare 

Of frankest childish wonder. 

Rounder they grew by slow degrees, 

Until the swinger, swerving, 
Made, all at once, alive to these 

Intentest orbs observing. 
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry, 

And, — as with gathered kirtle. 
Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly 

Thrust through the budding myrtle, — 

Fled in dismay. A moment's space, 
The eyes looked almost tragic • 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Then, when they caught my watching face, 

Vanished as if by magic ; 
And, like some sombre thing beguiled 

To strange, unwonted laughter, 
The gloomy garden, having smiled, 

Became the gloomier after. 



Act the Second. 

Yes : they were gone, the stage was bare, 

Blank as before ; and therefore, 
Sinking within the patient's chair, 

Half vexed, I knew not wherefore, 
I dozed ; till, startled by some call, 

A glance sufficed to show me, 
The boy again above the wall, 

The girl erect below me. 



The boy, it seemed, to add a force 

To words found unavailing, 
Had pushed a striped and spotted horse 

Half through the blistered paling, 
Where now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight, 

While he, in exultation, 
Chattered some half-articulate 

Excited explanation. 
86 



DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S mNDOlV. 

Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face, 

Stood motionless, and listened ; 
The ill-cut frock had gained a grace, 

The pale hair almost glistened ; 
The figure looked alert and bright, 

Buoyant as though some power 
Had lifted it, as rain at night 

Uplifts a drooping flower. 



The eyes had lost their listless way, — 

The old life, tired and faded. 
Had slipped down with the doll that lay 

Before her feet, degraded ; 
She only, yearning upward, found 

In those bright eyes above her 
The ghost of some enchanted ground 

Where even Nurse would love her. 



Ah, tyrant Time I you hold the book, 

We, sick and sad, begin it ; 
You close it fast, if we but look 

Pleased for a meagre minute ; 
You closed it now, for, out of sight, 

Some warning finger beckoned ; 
Exeunt both to left and right ; — 

Thus ended Act the Second. 
87 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



Act the Third. 



Or so it proved. For while I still 

Believed them gone for ever, 
Half raised above the window sill, 

I saw the lattice quiver ; 
And lo, once more appeared the head, 

Flushed, while the round mouth pouted ; 
*' Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said, 

In style the most undoubted. 

The girl came back without a thought ; 

Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon. 
If more restraint had not been taught 

In this neglected garden ; 
For these your code was all too stiff, 

So, seeing none dissented. 
Their unfeigned faces met as if 

Manners were not invented. 



Then on the scene, — by happy fate, 
When lip from lip had parted, 

And, therefore^ just two seconds late, — 
A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted ; 

Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite 

Upon a rover chicken, 
88 



DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S IVINDOIV. 

And bore him sourly off, despite 
His well-directed kicking. 

The girl stood silent, with a look 

Too subtle to unravel. 
Then, with a sudden gesture took 

The torn doll from the gravel ; 
Hid the whole face, with one caress, 

Under the garden-bonnet, 
And, passing in, I saw her press 

Kiss after kiss upon it. 



Exeunt omnes. End of play. 

It made the dull room brighter, 
The Gladiator almost gay. 

And e'en " The Lancet " lighter. 



89 



VIGNETTES JN RHYME. 



AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 

*' Sweet Themmes ! runne softly^ till I end my song'* 

Spenser. 

Lawrence. Frank. Jack. 

Lawrence. 
T T ERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the 
grasses, 

Push the boat in, and throw the rope 
ashore. 
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; 
Here let us sit. We landed here before. 

Frank. 
Jack 's undecided. Say, formose puer, 

Bent in a dream above the " water wan," 
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, 

There by the pollards, where you see the swan } 

Jack. 

Hist I That's a pike. Look — nose against the 

river, 

Gaunt as a wolf, — the sly old privateer 1 

Enter a gudgeon. Snap, — a gulp, a shiver ; — 

Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. 

90 



AN AUTUMN IDYLL, 

Frank (in the grass). 
Jove, what a day I Black Care upon the crupper 

Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; 
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, 

Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun I 

Lawrence. 
Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker, 
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. 

Frank. 
Sing you again. So musical a croaker 
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. 

Jack. 
Sing while you may. The beard of manhood 
still is 
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas 1 am old. 
Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; — 
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. 

Frank. 
Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, 
Say — by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we 
sing ? 

Lawrence. 
Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, 
Let him declare the prize he has to bring. 

9^ 



HGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Jack. 
Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted 

First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; — 
This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, 

Amber and foam, — a miracle of art. 

Lawrence. 
Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, 
Grant me a soft alliterative song I 

Frank. 
Me too, O Muse I And when the Umpire 
slumbers, 
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. 

Lawrence. 
Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, 

Not where the brook traditionally " purls/' — 
No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, 

Seek I the gem, — the paragon of girls. 

Frank. 

Not in the waste of column and of coping. 

Not in the sham and stucco of a square, — 

No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, 

Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. 

92 



AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 

Lawrence. 
Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 

Back from the brows, imperially curled ; 
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, 

Holding the roof that covers in a world. 

Frank. 
Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging 

Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; 
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, 

Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. 

Lawrence. 
Best is the song with the music interwoven : 

Mine 's a musician, — musical at heart, — 
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, 

Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 

Frank. 
Best ? You should hear mine thrilling out a ballad, 

Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, 
Not too divine to toss you up a salad. 

Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. 

Lawrence. 
Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping 
torches, 
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, 

93 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, 
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. 

Frank. 
Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, — 

Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, 
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, 

Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. 

Lawrence. 
All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her 

Round with so delicate divinity, that men, 
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, 

Bend to the goddess, manifest again. 

Frank. 
None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love 
her, — 
Cynics to boot. I know the children run, 
Seeing her come, for naught that I discover. 
Save that she brings the summer and the sun. 

Lawrence. 
Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly. 

Crowned with a sweet, continual control, 
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely 
E'en to her own nobility of soul. 

94 



AN AUTUMN IDYLL 

Frank. 

Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame : 

Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, — 
Jack's sister Florence, — now you know her 
name. 

Lawrence. 
" Jack's sister Florence!" Never, Francis, never. 
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant. 
She like the country 1 Ah, she 's far too clever — 

Frank. 
There you are wrong. I know her down in 
Kent. 

Lawrence. 
You '11 get a sunstroke, standing with your head 
bare. 
Sorry to differ. Jack, — the word 's with you. 

Frank. 

How is it. Umpire ? Though the motto 's thread- 
bare, 
*' Cxlurrij non animum " — is, I take it, true. 

Jack. 

'* Souvent femme vaiie," as a rule, is truer ; 
Flattered, I 'm sure, — but both of you romance. 

95 



VlGhlETTES IN RHYME. 

Happy to further suit of either wooer, 

Merely observing — you haven't got a chance. 

Lawrence. 
Yes. But the Pipe — 

Frank. 
The Pipe is what we care for, — 

Jack. 

Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, 
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, — 
Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 



96 



A GARDEN IDYLL. 

A GARDEN IDYLL. 
A Lady. A Poet. 

The Lady. 

IR Poet, ere you crossed the lawn 

(If it was wrong to watch you, pardon,) 
Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, 
I watched you saunter round the garden. 

1 saw you bend beside the phlox, 

Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, 
Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, 
Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; 

You paused beneath the cherry-tree, 

Where my marauder thrush was singing, 
Peered at the bee-hives curiously, 

And narrowly escaped a stinging; 
And then — you see I watched — you passed 

Down the espalier walk that reaches 
Out to the western wall, and last 

Dropped on the seat before the peaches. 

What was your thought ? You waited long. 
Sublime or graceful, — grave, — satiric ? 
VOL. I. — 7 97 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song? 

A tender Tennysonian lyric ? 
Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, 

As long as speech renown disperses, 
Illustrious as the spot where he — 

The gifted Blank — composed his verses. 



The Poet. 

Madam, — whose uncensorious eye 

Grows gracious over certain pages. 
Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, 

It may be, thicker than the Sage's, — 
I hear but to obey, and could 

Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, 
Some verse as whimsical as Hood, — 

As gay as Praed, — should answer to you. 

But, though the common voice proclaims 

Our only serious vocation 
Confined to giving nothings names. 

And dreams a " local habitation " ; 
Believe me there are tuneless days. 

When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, 
Would profit much by any lays 

That haunt the poet's cerebellum. 
98 



A GARDEN IDYLL. 

More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, 

More idle things than songs, absorb it ; 
The "" finely-frenzied " eye, at times, 

Reposes mildly in its orbit ; 
And — painful truth — at times, to him, 

Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, 
*' A primrose by a river's brim" 

Is absolutely unsuggestive. 

The fickle Muse ! As ladies will. 

She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; 
A goddess, yet a woman still, 

She flies the more that we pursue her; 
In short, with worst as well as best. 

Five months in six, your hapless poet 
Is just as prosy as the rest. 

But cannot comfortably show it. 

You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent 

Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation 
Of love that came and love that went, — 

Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, 
Born when the cuckoo changes song, 

Dead ere the apple's red is on it, 
That should have been an epic long. 

Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. 
99 

..LifC. 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Or else you thought, — the murmuring noon, 

He turns it to a lyric sweeter, 
With birds that gossip in the tune, 

And windy bough-swing in the metre ; 
Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms 

Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, 
Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, 

And mediaeval orchard blossoms, — 



Quite oi la mode. Alas for prose I — 

My vagrant fancies only rambled 
Back to the red-walled Rectory close, 

When first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 
Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, 

And chased the kitten round the beeches, 
Till widening instincts made me wish 

For certain slowly-ripening peaches. 



Three peaches. Not the Graces three 

Had more equality of beauty : 
I would not look, yet went to see ; 

I wrestled witli Desire and Duty ; 
I felt the pangs of those who feel 

The Laws of Property beset them ; 
The conflict made my reason reel. 

And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ; — 

lOO 



A GARDEN IDYLL 

Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair — 

More keen that one of these was rotten — 
Moved me to seek some forest lair 

Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, 
Attired in skins, by berries stained, 

Absolved from brushes and ablution ; — 
But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, 

Fate gave me up to execution. 

I saw it all but now. The grin 

That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; 
My father, scholar-like and thin, 

Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; 
I saw — ah me — I saw again 

My dear and deprecating mother ; 
And then, remembering the cane. 

Regretted — that Fd left the Other. 



xoi 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



TU QUOQUE. 

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. 

" r077lpr07lS-7lOUS^ 

Oil ne romprons-noiis pas ? " 

Le Depit Amoureux. 

Nellie. 

TF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, 

Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, 
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 
If I were you I 

Frank. 

If I were you, when persons I affected. 
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, 

I would, at least, pretend I recollected, 
If I were you I 

Nellie. 

If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, 

Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, 

I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish 

If I were you I 

1 02 



TU QUOQUE. 

Frank. 
If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer 

Whiff of the best, — the mildest "honey-dew," 
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, 

If I were you I 

Nellie. 
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter. 
Even to write the " Cynical Review" ; — 

Frank. 
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, 
If I were you I 

Nellie. 
Really 1 You would ? Why, Frank, you 're quite 
delightful, — 
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; 
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful^ 
If I were you I 

Frank. 

'* It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is 

Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu I 

/ shall retire. I 'd spare that poor Adonis, 

If I were you I 

103 



^MaBBiMHaiBiAa 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Nellie. 
Go, if you will. At once I And by express, sirl 

Where shall it be ? To China — or Peru > 
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, 

If I were you 1 

Frank. 
No, — I remain. To stay and fight a duel 

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do — 
Ah, you are strong, — I would not then be cruel, 

If I were you 1 

Nellie. 
One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, — 

Frank. 
One does not likeone'sfriends to misconstrue, — 

Nellie. 
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ? — 

Frank. 
I should admit that I was piqu^, too. 

Nellie. 
Ask me to dance. I 'd say no more about it, 
If I were you I 

[Waltz — Exeunt. 
104 



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 

*' Le temps le mieux employ'^ est celui qu'on perd^ 

Claude Tillier. 

T 'D '* read " three hours. Both notes and text 

Were fast a mist becoming ; 
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, 
And filled the room with humming, 



Then out. The casement's leafage sways. 

And, parted light, discloses 
Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze 

Of muslin mixed with roses. 



'* You 're reading Greek ? " '* I am — and you ? " 

*' O, mine 's a mere romancer 1 " 
" So Plato is." ^' Then read him — - do ; 

And I '11 read mine in answer." 



I read. '' My Plato (Plato, too, — 
That wisdom thus should harden I) 

Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue 
Beneath a Dolly Vardeii.''' 

105 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



She smiled. '' My book in turn avers 
(No author's name is stated) 

That sometimes those Philosophers 
Are sadly mis-translated." 



'' But hear, — the next 's in stronger style : 

The Cynic School asserted 
That two red lips which part and smile 

May not be controverted 1 " 



She smiled once more — *' My book, I find, 
Observes some modern doctors 

Would make the Cynics out a kind 
Of album-verse concoctors." 



Then I — ** Why not? ' Ephesian law, 
No less than time's tradition, 

Enjoined fair speech on all who saw 
Diana's apparition.' " 



She blushed — this time. *' If Plato's page 

No wiser precept teaches. 

Then I 'd renounce that doubtful sage, 

And walk to Burnham-beeches." 
io6 



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 

*' Agreed," I said. " For Socrates 

(I find he too is talking) 
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease 

While Beauty goes a-walking." 



She read no more. I leapt the sill : 
The sequel's scarce essential — 

Nay, more than this, I hold it still 
Profoundly confidential. 



107 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. 

pOOR Rose 1 I lift you from the street - 

Far better I should own you, 
Than you should lie for random feet, 
Where careless hands have thrown you I 



Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn I 
Did heartless Mayfair use you, 

Then cast you forth to lie forlorn. 
For chariot wheels to bruise you } 

I saw you last in Edith's hair. 

Rose, you would scarce discover 
That I she passed upon the stair 

Was Edith's favoured lover, 

A month — " a little month " — ago — 
O theme for moral writer 1 — 

'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, 
She might have been politer ; 



But let that pass. She gave you then 

Behind the oleander — 
loS 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. 

To one, perhaps, of all the men, 
Who best could understand her, — 



Cyril that, duly flattered, took, 

As only Cyril 's able, 
With just the same Arcadian look 

He used, last night, for Mabel ; 

Then, having waltzed till every star 
Had paled away in morning, 

Lit up his cynical cigar, 
And tossed you downward, scorning. 

Kismet, my Rose 1 Revenge is sweet, ■ 
She made my heart-strings quiver ; 

And yet — You sha'n't lie in the street, 
I '11 drop you in the River. 



109 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



LOVE IN WINTER. 

"D ETWEEN the berried holly-bush 

The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush : 
** Which way did bright-eyed Bella go ? 
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow, — 
Are those her dainty tracks I see, 
That wind beside the shrubbery ?" 

The Throstle pecked the berries still. 
*' No need for looking, Yellow-bill ; 
Young Frank was there an hour ago, 
Half frozen, waiting in the snow ; 
His callow beard was white with rime, — 
'Tchuck, — 'tis a merry pairing-time 1 " 

" What would you ? " twittered in the Wren ; 
'' These are the reckless ways of men. 
I watched them bill and coo as though 
They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; 
If men but timed their loves as we, 
'Twould save this inconsistency." 

** Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, " nay ; 

I like their unreflective way. 
no 



I 



LOVE IN IVINTER. 



Besides, I heard enough to show 
Their love is proof against the snow : — 
' Why wait/ he said, ' why wait for May, 
When love can warm a winter's day ? ' '* 



III 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



POT-POURRI. 

" Sijeufiesse savait ? — " 

T PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : 
(An alien touch but dust perceives, 
Nought else supposes ;) 
For me those fragrant ruins raise 
Clear memory of the vanished days 
When they were roses. 

"■ If youth but knew I" Ah, " if," in truth?- 
I can recall with what gay youth, 

To what light chorus, 
Unsobered yet by time or change, 
We roamed the many-gabled Grange, 

All life before us ; 

Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp 
To catch the dim Arthurian camp 

In misty distance; 
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, 
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 

Of feigned existence. 

112 



POT-POURRI. 

What need had we for thoughts or cares I 
The hot sun parched the old parterres 

And " flowerful closes " ; 
We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, 
Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — 

Then plucked these roses. 

Louise was one — light, glib Louise, 
So freshly freed from school decrees 

You scarce could stop her ; 
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
At fallen locks that scandalized 

Our dear '' Miss Proper: " — 

Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
Who wept — like Chaucer's Prioress, 

When Dash was smitten ; 
Who blushed before the mildest men, 
Yet waxed a very Corday when 

You teased her kitten. 

I loved them all. Bell first and best ; 
Louise the next — for days of jest 

Or madcap masking ; 
And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these. 
When my High-Mightiness should please. 

She 'd come for asking. 



VOL. I. — 8 



113 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Louise was grave when last we met ; 
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; 

And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, 
Has gone where neither grief nor pain 

Can now distress her. 



114 



DOROTHY. 



DOROTHY. 

A Reverie suggested by the Name upon a Pane. 

O HE then must once have looked, as I 

Look now, across the level rye, — 
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, 
As now I see, the village green, 
The bridge, and Walton's river — she 
Whose old-world name was *' Dorothy." 

The swallows must have twittered, too, 
Above her head ; the roses blew 
Below, no doubt, — and, sure, the South 
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, — 
That wistful mouth, which comes to me 
Linked with her name of Dorothy. 

What was she like ? I picture her 
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ; — 
Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly graced 
To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 
Whose crude perception could but see 
*' Ma'am Fine-airs " in " Miss Dorothy." 
115 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

How not? She loved, maybe, perfume, 
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; — 
Perchance too candidly preferred 
" Clarissa " to a gossip's word ; — 
And, for the rest, would seem to be 
Or proud, or dull — this Dorothy. 

Poor child I — with heart the down-lined nest 
Of warmest instincts unconfest. 
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt 
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, 
But yet, by some obscure decree 
Unwinged from birth ; — poor Dorothy I 

Not less I dream her mute desire 
To acred churl and booby squire. 
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled 
At " twice-told tales '' of foxes killed ; — 
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 
'Twixt sport, and Port — and Dorothy I 

'Twas then she 'd seek this nook, and find 

Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; 

And here, where still her gentle name 

Lives on the old green glass, would frame 

Fond dreams of unfound harmony 

'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy I 
ii6 



DOROTHY. 

l'envoi. 
These last I spoke. Then Florence said, 
Below me, — "Dreams? Delusions, Fred! 
Next, with a pause, — she bent the while 
Over a rose, with roguish smile — 
^' But how disgusted, Sir, you '11 be 
To hear / scrawled that ' Dorothy.' " 



117 



yiGhlETTES IN RHYME. 



AVICE. 

" On serait tenti de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Berge- 
ronnette." — Victor Hugo. 

'T^HOUGH the voice of modern schools 
Has demurred, 

By the dreamy Asian creed 

'Tis averred, 

That the souls of men, released 

From their bodies when deceased, 

Sometimes enter in a beast, — 
Or a bird. 



I have v^^atched you long, Avice, — 
Watched you so, 

I have found your secret out ; 
And I know 

That the restless ribboned things, 

Where your slope of shoulder springs, 

Are but undeveloped wings 

That will grow. 

When you enter in a room, 

It is stirred 
ii8 



With the wayward, flashing flight 

Of a bird ; 
And you speak — and bring with you 
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, 
And the wind-breath and the dew, 
At a word. 

When you called to me my name, 

Then again 
When I heard your single cry 

In the lane, 
All the sound was as the *' sweet** 
Which the birds to birds repeat 
In their thank-song to the heat 
After rain. 

When you sang the Schipalbenliedy 

'Twas absurd, — 

But it seemed no human note 

That I heard ; 

For your strain had all the trills, 

All the little shakes and stills, 

Of the over-song that rills 

From a bird. 

You have just their eager, quick 

" Airs de me,"' 
119 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

All their flush and fever-heat 

When elate ; 
Every bird-like nod and beck, 
And a bird's own curve of neck 
When she gives a little peck 

To her mate. 

When you left me, only now, 

In that furred, 
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, 

I was spurred 
Just to catch you, O my Sweet, 
By the bodice trim and neat, — 
Just to feel your heart a-beat, 
Like a bird. 

Yet, alas I Love's light you deign 
But to wear 

As the dew upon your plumes. 

And you care 

Not a whit for rest or hush ; 

But the leaves, the lyric gush. 

And the wing-power, and the rush 
Of the air. 

So I dare not woo you, Sweet, 
For a day, 

I20 



Lest I lose you in a flash, 

As I may ; 

Did I tell you tender things, 

You would shake your sudden wings ; 

You would start from him who sings, 
And away. 



121 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



THE LOVE-LETTER. 

" Jf'at vu les mosurs de mon terns, etfai public cette lettre.'* 

La Nouvelle Hi^LOiSE. 

T F this should fail, why then I scarcely know 
What could succeed. Here 's brilliancy (and 
banter), 
Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau ; — 

If this should fail, then tempora mutantur ; 
Style 's out of date, and love, as a profession, 
Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. 

** The men who think as I, I fear, are few," 
(Cynics would say 'twere well if they were 
fewer) ; 

*M am not what I seem," — (indeed, 'tis true ; 
Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer) ; 

" Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie 

More deep than words" — (as these exemplify). 

*' I will not say when first your beauty's sun 
Illumed my life," — (it needs imagination) ; 

*' For me to see you and to love were one," — 
(This will account for some precipitation) ; 

122 



THE LOVE-LETTER. 

*^ Let it suffice that worship more devoted 
Ne'er throbbed," et ccetera. The rest is quoted. 

** If Love can look v^^ith all-prophetic eye," — 
(Ah, if he could, how^ many v^ould be single 1) 

*' If truly spirit unto spirit cry," — 

(The ears of some most terribly must tingle I) 

*' Then I have dreamed you will not turn your 
face." 

This next, I think, is more than commonplace. 

*' Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, 
Forestall the speech with favour found before ? 

Why should we plead ? — it were an idle thing, 
If Love himself be Love's ambassador I " 

Blot, as I live I Shall we erase it ? No ; — 

'Twill show we write currente calamo. 



" My fate, — my fortune, I commit to you,**— 
(In point of fact, the latter 's not extensive) ; 
"Without you I am poor indeed," — (strike 
through, 
'Tis true but crude — 'twould make her appre- 
hensive) ; 
*' My life is yours — I lay it at your feet," 

(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). 

123 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

" Give me the right to stand within the shrine, 
Where never yet my faltering feet intruded ; 
Give me the right to call you v^^holly mine," — 
(That is, Consols and Three-per-Cents in- 
cluded) ; 
*' To guard your rest from every care that 

cankers, — 
To keep your life," — (and balance at your 
banker's). 

" Compel me not to long for your reply ; 

Suspense makes havoc with the mind" — (and 
muscles) ; 
*' Winged Hope takes flight," — (which means 
that I must fly, 
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels) ; 
*' I cannot wait 1 My own, my queen — Priscilla! 
Write by return." And noiv for a Manilla ! 

'' Miss Blank," at ** Blank." Jemima, let it go ; 

And I, meanwhile, will idle with "Sir Walter ; " 

Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though — 

'Twill serve again. There 's but the name to 

alter. 

And Love, — that starves, — must knock at every 

portal, 

Informd pauperis. We are but mortal I 

124 



THE MISOGYNIST. 



THE MISOGYNIST. 

*^ II etait iinjeune homme (Tun Men beau passe.** 

'yyHEN first he sought our haunts, he wore 

His locks in Hamlet-style; 
His brow with thought was " sicklied o'er," — 

We rarely saw him smile ; 
And, e'en when none were looking on, 
His air was always woe-begone. 

He kept, I think, his bosom bare 

To imitate Jean Paul ; 
His solitary topics were 

^Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; — 
Although at times, but not for long, 
He bowed his Intellect to song. 

He served, he said, a Muse of Tears : 

I know his verses breathed 
A fine funereal air of biers, 

And objects cypress-wreathed ; — 
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled 
An ode he named "The Sheeted Dead." 

125 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 

In these light moods, I call to mind, 

He darkly would allude 
To some dread sorrow undefined, — 

Some passion unsubdued ; 
Then break into a ghastly laugh, 
And talk of Keats his epitaph. 

He railed at women's faith as Cant ; 

We thought him grandest when 
He named them Siren-shapes that '* chant 

On blanching bones of IVIen ; " — 
Alas, not e'en the great go free 
From that insidious minstrelsy ! 

His lot, he oft would gravely urge, 

Lay on a lone Rock where 
Around Time-beaten bases surge 

The Billows of Despair. 
We dreamed it true. We never knew 
What gentler ears he told it to. 

We, bound with him in common care. 

One-minded, celibate, 
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare 

Our lives to dedicate ; — 

We, truly, in no common sense, 

Deserved his closest confidence ! 
126 



THE MISOGYNIST. 

But soon, and yet, though soon, too late, 
We, sorrowing, sighed to find 

A gradual softness enervate 
That all superior mind. 

Until, — in full assembly met, 

He dared to speak of Etiquette. 

The verse that we severe had known, 

Assumed a wanton air, — 
A fond effeminate monotone 

Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ; 
Not 7]do^ stirred him now or voi)?, 
He read " The Angel in the House I " 

Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, 

Grew whimsically sore 
If we but named a photograph 

We found him simpering o'er ; 
Or told how in his chambers lurked 
A watch-guard intricately worked. 

Then worse again. He tried to dress ; 

He trimmed his tragic mane ; 
Announced at length (to our distress) 

He had not " lived in vain " ; — 

Thenceforth his one prevailing mood 

Became a base beatitude. 
127 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soull 
We met him last, grown stout, 

His throat with wedlock's triple roll, 
"All wool," — enwound about ; 

His very hat had changed its brim ; — 

Our course was clear, — we banished him I 



128 



A VIRTUOSO. 



A VIRTUOSO. 

T)E seated, pray. " A grave appeal''? 
The sufferers by the war, of course ; 
Ah, what a sight for us who feel, — 

This monstrous mdodrame of Force I 
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, 

On whom its heaviest burden falls ; 
Collections shattered at a blow, 

Museums turned to hospitals I 

" And worse," you say ; " the wide distress ! " 

Alas, 'tis true distress exists, 
Though, let me add, our worthy Press 

Have no mean skill as colourists ; — 
Speaking of colour, next your seat 

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand ; 
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete. 

Yet not indifferently planned ; 

Note specially the gray old Guard, 
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap 

A closer bandage round the scarred 
And frozen comrade in his lap; — 
VOL.1. — 9 129 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

But, as regards the present war, — 

Now don't you think our pride of pence 

Goes — may I say it? — somewhat far 
For objects of benevolence ? 

You hesitate. For my part, I — 

Though ranking Paris next to Rome, 
iEsthetically — still reply 

That " Charity begins at Home." 
The words remind me. Did you catch 

My so-named " Hunt " ? The girl 's a gem ; 
And look how those lean rascals snatch 

The pile of scraps she brings to them I 

" But your appeal 's for home," — you say, — 

For home, and English poor I Indeed I 
I thought Philanthropy to-day 

Was blind to mere domestic need — 
However sore — Yet though one grants 

That home should have the foremost claims, 
At least these Continental wants 

Assume intelligible names ; 

"While here with us — Ah I who could hope 

To verify the varied pleas, 

Or from his private means to cope 

With all our shrill necessities I 
130 



A VIRTUOSO. 

Impossible ! One might as well 
Attempt comparison of creeds ; 

Or fill that huge Malayan shell 

With these half-dozen Indian beads. 

Moreover, add that every one 

So well exalts his pet distress, 
'Tis — Give to all, or give to none, 

If you 'd avoid invidiousness. 
Your case, I feel, is sad as A/s, 

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ; 
By my selection I should raise 

An alphabet of rivalries ; 

And life is short, — I see you look 

At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; 
You '11 find it etched in Jacquemart's book. 

They say that Raphael painted It ; — 
And life is short, you understand ; 

So, if I only hold you out 
An open though an empty hand. 

Why, you '11 forgive me, I 've no doubt. 

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; 

One can but be consistent. Sir I 
'Twas on these grounds I just refused 

Some gushing lady-almoner, — 
131 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



Believe me, on these very grounds. 

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity I 
That cost me quite three hundred pounds,' 

That Durer figure, — " Charity." 



132 



LAISSEZ FAIRE. 



LAISSEZ FAIRE. 

" Prophete rechts, Prophete linksy 
Das Welt kind in der Mitten," 

Goethe's Dine zu Coblenz. 

nnO left, here's B., half-Communist, 

Who talks a chastened treason. 
And C, a something-else in *' ist," 
Harangues, to right, on Reason. 

B., from his " tribune," fulminates 
At Throne and Constitution, 

Nay — with the walnuts — advocates 
Reform by revolution ; 

While C.'s peculiar coterie 

Have now in full rehearsal 
Some patent new Philosophy 

To make doubt universal. 

And yet — Why not ? If zealots burn, 

Their zeal has not affected 
My taste for salmon and Sauterne, 

Or I might have objected : — 
133 



yJGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Friend B., the argument you choose 

Has been by France refuted ; 
And C, mon cher, your novel views 

Are just Tom Paine, diluted ; 

There 's but one creed, — that's Laisse\ falre. 

Behold its mild apostle I 
My dear, declamatory pair, 

Although you shout and jostle, 

Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine, 
Time's Gordian knots shall sunder, — 

Will laid three casks of this old wine : 
Who '11 drink the last, I wonder ? 



134 



TO Q. H. R 



TO Q. H. F. 

SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE 
martin's " HORACE." 

("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS.") 

"TTORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8," 

There 's not a doubt about the date,— 
You 're dead and buried ; 
As you observed, the seasons roll ; 
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul 

Has Charon ferried, 
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine, 
They laid you on the Esquiline. 



And that was centuries ago 1 

You 'd think we 'd learned enough, I know, 

To help refine us. 
Since last you trod the Sacred Street, 
And tacked from mortal fear to meet 

The bore Crispinus ; 
Or, by your cold Digentia, set 
The web of winter birding-net. 

135 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Ours is so far-advanced an age I 
Sensation tales, a classic stage, 

Commodious villas I 
We boast high art, an Albert Hall, 
Australian meats, and men who call 

Their sires gorillas 1 
We have a thousand things, you see, 
Not dreamt in your philosophy. 

And yet, how strange I Our "world," to-day, 
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh 

Your Roman cronies ; 
Walk in the Park — you '11 seldom fail 
To find a Sybaris on the rail 

By Lydia's ponies. 
Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed, 
Ogling some unsuspecting maid. 



The great Gargilius, then, behold I 
His " long-bow " hunting tales of old 

Are now but duller ; 
Fair Neobule too I Is not 
One Hebrus here — from Aldershot? 

Aha, you colour 1 

Be wise. There old Canidia sits ; 

No doubt she 's tearing you to bits. 
136 



TO Q, H. F. 

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind, 
Comes dear Maecenas, half behind 

Terentia's skirting ; 
Here 's Pyrrha, " golden-haired " at will ; 
Prig Damasippus, preaching still ; 

Asterie flirting, — 
Radiant, of course. We '11 make her black, 
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back. 

So with the rest. Who will may trace 
Behind the new each elder face 

Defined as clearly ; 
Science proceeds, and man stands still ; 
Our " world " to-day 's as good or ill, — 

As cultured (nearly). 
As yours was, Horace I You alone, 
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known. 



^37 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



TO **LYDIA LANGUISH." 

"// me faut des emotions?* 

Blanche Amory. 

VT'OU ask me, Lydia, ''whether I, 
If you refuse my suit, shall die." 

(Now pray don't let this hurt you I) 
Although the time be out of joint, 
I should not think a bodkin's point 

The sole resource of virtue ; 
Nor shall I, though your mood endure, 
Attempt a final Water-cure 

Except against my wishes ; 
For I respectfully decline 
To dignify the Serpentine, 

And make hors-d'oeuvres for fishes ; 
But, if you ask me whether I 

Composedly can go, 
Without a look, without a sigh, 

Why, then I answer — No. 

" You are assured," you sadly say 
(If in this most considerate way 
To treat my suit your will is), 
That I shall " quickly find as fair 

138 



TO ''LYDIA LANGUISH." 

Some new Neaera's tangled hair — 

Some easier Amaryllis." 
I cannot promise to be cold 
If smiles are kind as yours of old 

On lips of later beauties ; 
Nor can I, if I would^ forget 
The homage that is Nature's debt, 

While man has social duties ; 
But, if you ask shall I prefer 

To you I honour so, 
A somewhat visionary Her, 

I answer truly — No. 

You fear, you frankly add, " to find 
In me too late the altered mind 

That altering Time estranges." 
To this I make response that we 
(As physiologists agree) 

Must have septennial changes ; 
This is a thing beyond control. 
And it were best upon the whole 

To try and find out whether 
We could not, by some means, arrange 
This not-to-be-avoided change 

So as to change together: 
But, had you asked me to allow 

That you could ever grow 
139 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Less amiable than you are now, — 
Emphatically — No. 

But — to be serious — if you care 
To know how I shall really bear 

This much-discussed rejection, 
I answer you. As feeling men 
Behave, in best romances, when 

You outrage their affection ; — 
With that gesticulatory woe. 
By which, as melodramas show, 

Despair is indicated ; 
Enforced by all the liquid grief 
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief 

Has ever simulated ; 
And when, arrived so far, you say 

In tragic accents " Go," 
Then, Lydia, then ... I still shall stay, 

And firmly answer — No. 



14.0 



A GAGE D' AMOUR. 



A GAGE D'AMOUR. 
(Horace, hi., 8.) 

" Martiis ccelebs quid again Kalendis 
miraris ? " 

/^^HARLES, — for it seems you wish to know,- 

You wonder what could scare me so, 
And why, in this long-locked bureau. 

With trembling fingers,— 
With tragic air, I now replace 
This ancient web of yellow lace, 
Among whose faded folds the trace 

Of perfume lingers. 



Friend of my youth, severe as true, 

I guess the train your thoughts pursue ; 

But this my state is nowise due 

To indigestion ; 

I had forgotten it was there, 

A scarf that Some-one used to wear. 

Hinc nice lacrimcc, — so spare 

Your cynic question. 
141 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Some-one who is not girlish now, 

And wed long since. We meet and bow ; 

I don't suppose our broken vow 

Affects us keenly; 
Yet, trifling though my act appears. 
Your Sternes would make it ground for tears ; ■ 
One can't disturb the dust of years, 

And smile serenely. 

*' My golden locks " are gray and chill, 
For hers, — let them be sacred still ; 
But yet, I own, a boyish thrill 

Went dancing through me, 
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace ; 
For, from its dusty hiding-place, 
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face 

That beckoned to me. 



We shut our heart up, now-a-days, 

Like some old music-box that plays 

Unfashionable airs that raise 

Derisive pity ; 

Alas, — a nothing starts the spring ; 

And lo, the sentimental thing 

At once commences quavering 

Its lover's ditty. 
142 



A GAGE U AMOUR. 

Laugh, if you like. The boy in me, — 

The boy that was, — revived to see 

The fresh young smile that shone when she, 

Of old, was tender. 
Once more we trod the Golden Way, — 
That mother you saw yesterday, 
And I, whom none can well portray, 

As young, or slender. 

She twirled the flimsy scarf about 
Her pretty head, and stepping out. 
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout 

Of childish pleasure. 
Where we were bound no mortal knows. 
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes, 
And brought me blankly back to prose 
, And Gladstone's measure. 

Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. 
My brown old books around me wait. 
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate. 

Its wonted station. 
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep 
The bachelor's secluded sleep 
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, 

I pour libation 1 

143 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



CUPID'S ALLEY. 

A MORALITY. 

O, Lave 's but a dance ^ 

Where Time plays the fiddle t 
See the couples advance ^ — 
<?, Love '.r but a dance ! 
A whisper y a glance, — 

" Shall we twirl doivn the middle ? ** 
O, Love 'j but a dance. 

Where Time plays the fiddle ! 

TT runs (so saith my Chronicler) 

Across a smoky City ; — 
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, 

Huge, gloomy, black and gritty ; 
Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, 

Dark-yawning looks the valley, — 
But here 'tis always fresh and clear, 

For here — is " Cupid's Alley." 



And, from an Arbour cool and green 

With aspect down the middle. 

An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean, 

Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ; 
144 



CUPID'S ALLEY. 

Alert he seems, but aged enow 

To punt the Stygian galley ; — 
With wisp of forelock on his brow, 

He plays — in " Cupid's Alley." 

All day he plays, — a single tune 1 — 

But, by the oddest chances, 
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon, 

It suits all kinds of dances ; 
My Lord may walk a pas de Cour 

To Jenny's pas de Chalet; — 
The folks who ne'er have danced before, 

Can dance — in " Cupid's Alley." 

And here, for ages yet untold, 

Long, long before my ditty, 
Came high and low, and young and old, 

From out the crowded City ; 
And still to-day they come, they go, 

And just as fancies tally, 
They foot it quick, they foot it slow, 

All day — in *' Cupid's Alley." 

Strange dance I 'Tis free to Rank and Rags ; 

Here no distinction flatters. 
Here Riches shakes its money-bags. 

And Poverty its tatters ; 

VOL. L — io 145 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law; — 
Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet ; 

Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a', 
They bob — in " Cupid's Alley." 

Strange pairs I To laughing, fresh Fifteen 

Here capers Prudence thrifty ; 
Here Prodigal leads down the green 

A blushing Maid of fifty ; 
Some treat it as a serious thing, 

And some but shilly-shally ; 
And some have danced without the ring 

(Ah me 1) — in " Cupid's Alley." 

And sometimes one to one will dance, 

And think of one behind her ; 
And one by one will stand, perchance, 

Yet look all ways to find her ; 
Some seek a partner with a sigh. 

Some win him with a sally ; 
And some, they know not how nor why, 

Strange fate ! — of ^' Cupid's Alley." 

And some will dance an age or so 

Who came for half a minute ; 

And some, who like the game, will go 

Before they well begin it ; 
146 



CUPID'S ALLEY. 

And some will vow they 're " danced to death," 

Who (somehow) always rally ; 
Strange cures are wrought (mine Author saith). 

Strange cures I — in '' Cupid's Alley." 

It may be one will dance to-day, 

And dance no more to-morrow ; . 
It may be one will steal away 

And nurse a life-long sorrow ; 
What then ? The rest advance, evade, 

Unite, dispart, and dally, 
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade, 

Not less — in " Cupid's Alley." 

For till that City's wheel-work vast 

And shuddering beams shall crumble ; — 
And till that Fiddler lean at last 

From off his seat shall tumble ; — 
Till then (the Civic records say), 

This quaint, fantastic ballet 
Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay, 

Must last — in " Cupid's Alley." 



147 



nCNETTES IN RHYME, 



THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. 

(The Scene is in a garden, — where you please, 
So that it lie in France, and have withal 

Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees, 
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal. 

A Princess, — feeding fish. To her Denise.) 

The Princess. 
n'^HESE, Denise, are my Suitors I 

Denise. 

Where ? 

The Princess. 

These fisL. 
I feed them daily here at morn and night 
With crumbs of favour, — scraps of graciousness, 
Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish, 
But serving just to edge an appetite. 

(Throiving bread.) 
Make haste, Messieurs! Make haste, then! 

Hurry. See, — 
See how they swim 1 Would you not say, confess, 
Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, 
When the King comes ? 

Denise. 

You 're jesting 1 
148 



THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. 

The Princess. 

Not at all. 
Watch but the great one yonder 1 There 's the 

Duke ; — 
Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke ; 
Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. 
Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings ; 
Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, 
Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair ? 
You surely have, Denise. 

Denise. 

I think I have. 
But there 's another, older and more grave, — 
The one that wears the round patch on the throat, 
And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note ? 

The Princess. 

Why that 's my good chambellan — with his seal. 

A kind old man ! — he carves me orange-peel 

In quaint devices at refection-hours. 

Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning 

flowers. 

Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, 

Such as men loved when people wooed like birds 

And spoke the true note first. No suitor he, 

Yet loves me too, — though in a graybeard's key 

149 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Denise. 

Look, Madam, look I — a fish without a stain I 
O speckless, fleckless fish I Who is it, pray, 
That bears him so discreetly ? 

The Princess. 

fontenay. 
You know him not } My prince of shining locks 
My pearl ! — my Phoenix 1 — my pomander-box ! 
He loves not Me, alas 1 The man 's too vain 1 
He loves his doublet better than my suit, — 
His graces than my favours. Still his sash 
Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute 
Not wholly out of tune — 

Denise. 

Ai I what a splash I 
Who is it comes with such a sudden dash 
Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear > 



The Princess. 
Ho I for a trumpet I Let the bells be rung I 
Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Prds-en-Cieux, 
Vidame of Vol-au-Vent — " et aultres Ueux T' 
Bah ! How I hate his Gasconading tongue I 



THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. 

Why, that 's my bragging Bravo- Musketeer — 
My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar 
Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war : — 
His very life 's a splash 1 

Denise. 

I'd rather wear 
E'en such a patched and melancholy air. 
As his, — that motley one, — who keeps the wall, 
And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival. 

The Princess. 
My frankest wooer ! Thus his love he tells 
To mournful moving of his cap and bells. 
He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free, — 
As Cowards War, — as young Maids Constancy. 
Item^ he loves me as the Hawk the Dove ; 
He loves me as the Inquisition Thought ; — 

Denise. 
" He loves ? — he loves ? " Why all this loving 's 
naught 1 

The Princess. 
And " Naught (quoth Jacquot) makes the sum 

of Love ! " 

151 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Denise. 
The cynic knave I How call you this one here ? — 
This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near, 
And circles, like a cat around a cage, 
To snatch the surplus. 

The Princess. 

Cherubin, the page. 
Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile, 
And those sly looks, the child will make hearts 

ache 
Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile, 
He lives to plague the swans upon the lake. 
To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake. 

Denise. 
And these — that swim aside — who may these be ? 

The Princess. 
Those — are two gentlemen of Picardy. 
Equal in blood, — of equal bravery : — 
D' Aurelles and M aufrignac. They hunt in pair ; 
I mete them morsels with an equal care, 
Lest they should eat each other, — or eat Me. 

Denise. 

And that — and that — and that? 

152 



THE IDYLL OF THE CARP, 

The Princess. 

I name them not. 
Those are the crowd who merely think their lot 
The lighter by my land. 

Denise. 

And is there none 
More prized than most ? There surely must be 

one, — 
A Carp of carps I 

The Princess. 

Ah me 1 — he will not come 1 

He swims at large, — looks shyly on, — is dumb. 

Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, 

But while he stays with doubts and fears to 

quibble, 
Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble, 
Slips smartly in, — and gets the proffered crumb. 
He should have all my crumbs — if he 'd but ask ; 
Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task 
To gain a something more. But though he's 

brave, 
He 's far too proud to be a dangling slave ; 
And then — he's modest I So . . . he will not 

come 1 

153 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



THE SUNDIAL. 

'npiS an old dial, dark with many a stain ; 

In summer crowned with drifting orchard 
bloom, 
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, 
And white in winter like a marble tomb ; 



And round about its gray, time-eaten brow 
Lean letters speak — a worn and shattered row : 

3f am a ^|)alie : a ^IjaUolue too arte tl)0tt : 
3^ martie t^e ^Uttne : siape, (0o6fi!tp, Host tl)Ott not ? 



Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head ; 

And here the snail a silver course would run. 
Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread 

His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. 

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon ; 

Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept. 
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a 
tune, — 
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. 
154 



THE SUNDIAL 

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed ; 

About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone ; 
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, 

Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone 

She leaned upon the slab a little while, 

Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone. 

Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, 
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. 

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail ; 

There came a second lady to the place, 
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and 
pale — 

An inner beauty shining from her face. 

She, as if listless with a lonely love. 

Straying among the alleys with a book, — 

Herrick or Herbert, — watched the circling dove, 
And spied the tiny letter in the nook. 

Then, like to one who confirmation found 

Of some dread secret half-accounted true, — 

Who knew what hands and hearts the letter 

bound, 

And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, 

155 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME, 

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone ; 

The dark shade gloomed an instant on her 
head ; 
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone 

The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. 



The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom ; 

There came a soldier gallant in her stead, 
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, 

A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head ; 

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, 
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love ; 

So kindly fronted that you marvel how 

The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; 

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; 

Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; 
And standing somewhat widely, like to one 

More used to " Boot and Saddle" than to cringe 



As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, 
Took out the note ; held it as one who feared 

The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; 
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard ; 



THE SUNDIAL 

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; 

Laughed softly in a flattered happy way. 
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest, 

And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. 

• ••••••• 

The shade crept forward through the dying glow ; 

There came no more nor dame nor cavalier ; 
But for a little time the brass will show 

A small gray spot — the record of a tear. 



157 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



AN UNFINISHED SONG. 

** Cantat Deo qui vivit Deo^ 

"W'ES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest, 

The year could not renew him ; nor the cry 
Of building nightingales about the nest ; 

Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh, 



That fell before the garden scents, and died 
Between the ampler leafage of the trees : 

All these he knew not, lying open-eyed, 

Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease, 



But death not yet. Outside a woman talked — 
His wife she was — whose clicking needles sped 

To faded phrases of complaint that balked 
My rising words of comfort. Overhead, 



A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars 
Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped. 

Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars. 
Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped. 
^5S 



AN UNFINISHED SONG. 

*' Is it a thrush } " I asked. " A thrush," she said. 

" That was Will's tune. Will taught him that 
before 
He left the doorway settle for his bed, 

Sick as you see, and could n't teach him more. 



" He 'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, 
Following the light, and whiles when it was dark 

And days were warm, he 'd sit there whistling still, 
Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark." 

*' Jack 1 Jack ! " A joyous flutter stirred the cage. 
Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began ; 

The woman turned again to want and wage. 
And in the inner chamber sighed the man. 

How clear the song was I Musing as I heard, 
My fancies wandered from the droning wife 

To sad comparison of man and bird, — 
The broken song, the uncompleted life, 

That seemed a broken song ; and of the two. 
My thought a moment deemed the bird more 
blest. 
That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, 
Without desire or knowledge of the rest. 

159 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Nay, happier man. For him futurity 
Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise 

Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, 
Solver of all, above his Flow^er of Days, 



Teach him the song that no one living knows ? 

Let the man die, with that half-chant of his, — 
What Now discovers not Hereafter shows, 

And God will surely teach him more than this. 



Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along ; 

But Time and Death, Eternity and Change, 
Talked with me ever, and the climbing song 

Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange. 



i6o 



THE CHILD-MUSICUN. 



THE CHILD-MUSICIAN. 

TT E had played for his lordship's levee, 

He had played for her ladyship's whim, 
Till the poor little head was heavy, 
And the poor little brain would swim. 

And the face grew peaked and eerie. 
And the large eyes strange and bright, 

And they said— too late — " He is weary 1 
He shall rest for, at least. To-night 1 " 

But at dawn, when the birds were waking. 
As they watched in the silent room. 

With the sound of a strained cord breaking, 
A something snapped in the gloom. 

'Twas a string of his violoncello. 

And they heard him stir in his bed : — 

'^ Make room for a tired little fellow. 
Kind God ! — " was the last that he said. 

VOL. I. — II 

i6i 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME. 



THE CRADLE. 

T T OW steadfastly she 'd worked at it 

How lovingly had drest 
With all her would-be-mother's wit 
That little rosy nest I 



How longingly she 'd hung on it I — 
It sometimes seemed, she said, 

There lay beneath its coverlet 
A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest, 
Ere bleak December fled ; 

That rosy nest he never prest . . o 
Her coffin was his bed. 



162 



BEFORE SEDAN. 



BEFORE SEDAN. 

" The dead hand clasped a letter." 

Special Correspondence. 

T T ERE in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies ; 
'Tis but another dead ; 
All you can say is said. 



Carry his body hence, — 
Kings must have slaves ; 

Kings climb to eminence 
Over men's graves : 

So this man's eye is dim ; — 

Throw the earth over him. 



"What was the white you touched, 

There, at his side ? 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died ; — 

Message or wish, may be ; — 

Smooth the folds out and see. 
163 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled I — ■ 
Only the tremulous 

Words of a child ; — 
Prattle, that has for stops 
Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. She is sad to miss, 

Morning and night, 
His — her dead father's — kiss ; 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. " Marguerite." 

Ah, if beside the dead 
Slumbered the pain I 

Ah, if the hearts that bled 
Slept with the slain I 

If the grief died ; — But no ; — 

Death will not have it so. 



164 



THE FORGOTTEN GRAl^E, 



THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. 

A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY. 

/^UT from the City's dust and roar, 

You wandered through the open door ; 
Paused at a plaything pall and spade 
Across a tiny hillock laid ; 
Then noted on your dexter side 
Some moneyed mourner's " love or pride " 
And so, — beyond a hawthorn-tree, 
Showering its rain of rosy bloom 
Alike on low and lofty tomb, — 
You came upon it — suddenly. 

How strange I The very grasses' growth 

Around it seemed forlorn and loath ; 

The very ivy seemed to turn 

Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. 

The slab had sunk ; the head declined, 

And left the rails a wreck behind. 

No name ; you traced a " 6," — a ''7," 

Part of '' affliction " and of " Heaven " ; 

And then, in letters sharp and clear, 

You read — O Irony austere ! — 

" Tho' lost to Sight, to Meniry dear.'" 



yiGNETTES IN RHYME, 



MY LANDLADY. 

A SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a 
^^ bow ; 

'' Yes," so she says, " and younger, too, than 
some," 
Who bids me, bustling, " God speed," when I go. 
And gives me, rustling, "Welcome," when I 
come. 

''Ay, sir, 'tis cold, — and freezing hard, — they 
say; 

I 'd like to give that hulking brute a hit — 
Beating his horse in such a shameful way I — 

Step here, sir, till your fire 's blazed up a bit." 

A musky haunt of lavender and shells, 

Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and 
trays — 

A life's collection — where each object tells 
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways : — 

A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp; 

A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame ; 
i66 



MY LANDLADY. 

A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp ; 
A child's mug graven with a golden name ; 

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set ; 

A card^ with sea-weed twisted to a wreath, 
Circling a silky curl as black as jet, 

With yellow writing faded underneath. 

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair, 
And note the objects slowly, one by one, 

And light at last upon a portrait there, — 
Wide-collared, raven-haired. " Yes, 'tis my 
son 1 " 

" Where is he ? " *' Ah, sir, he is dead — my boy 1 
Nigh ten long years ago — in 'sixty-three ; 

He 's always living in my head — my boy I 
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. 

** There were two souls washed overboard, they 

said. 
And one the waves brought back ; but he was 

left. 

They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head ; 

The sea was running wildly ; — he was left. 
167 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 

*' He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you 
know, 

When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried, 
And prayed to God^ — though 'twas so long ago, — 

He did not struggle much before he died. 



*' ' Twas his third voyage. That's the box he 

brought, — 

Or would have brought — my poor deserted boy ! 

And these the words the agents sent — they 

thought 

That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. 



" Look, sir, I 've something here that I prize 
more : 
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat, — 
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er. 
And this stayed in his hand. That 's what they 
wrote. 



''Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking 

you ; — 

Grief is for them that have both time and 

wealth : 

i68 



MY LANDLADY. 

We can't mourn much, who have much work 
to do ; 
Your fire is bright. Thank. God, I have my 
health I " 



169 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 

*'1\/[ISS PEACOCK'S called." And who 
demurs ? 

Not I who write, for certain ; 
If praise be due, one sure prefers 
That some such face as fresh as hers 

Should come before the curtain. 

And yet, most strange to say, I find 

(E'en bards are sometimes prosy) 
Her presence here but brings to mind 
That undistinguished crowd behind 

For whom life 's not so rosy. 

The pleased young premier led her on, 

But where are all the others ? 
Where is that nimble servant John } 
And where 's the comic Uncle gone? 

And where that best of Mothers } 

Where is *' Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart.'^ } 

And where the crafty Cousin ? — 

That man may have a kindly heart, 

And yet each night ('tis in the part) 

Must poison half-a-dozen ! 
170 



BEFORE THE CURTAIN, 

Where is the cool Detective, — he 

Should surely be applauded ? 
The Lawyer, who refused the fee ? — 
The Wedding Guests (in number three) >- 

Why are they all defrauded ? 

The men who worked the cataract ? 

The plush-clad carpet lifters? — 
Where is the countless host, in fact, 
Whose cue is not to speak, but act, — 

The " supers" and the shifters? 

Think what a crowd whom none recall, 
Unsung, — unpraised, — unpitied ; — 
Women for whom no bouquets fall, 
And men whose names no galleries bawl, 
The Great unBenefit-ed 1 

Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page, 

I leave you this for Moral : — 
Remember those who tread Life's stage 
With weary feet and scantest wage, 
And ne'er a leaf for laurel I 



171 



VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 



A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON 
GARDENS. 

n^HEY paused, — the cripple in the chair, 

More bent with pain than age ; 
The mother with her lines of care ; 
The many-buttoned page ; 



The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, 

With straggling train of three ; 
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ; — 

All, curious, paused to see, 



If possible, the small, dusk bird 
That from the almond bough. 

Had poured the joyous chant they heard, 
So suddenly, but now. 



And one poor Poet stopped and thought 

How many a lonely lay 
That bird had sung ere fortune brought 

It near the common way, 

172 



A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS, 

Where the crowd hears the note. And then, 

What birds must sing the song, 
To whom that hour of listening men 

Could ne'er in life belong I 



But "Art for Art I " the Poet said, 

'"Tis still the Nightingale, 
That sings where no men's feet will tread, 

And praise and audience fail." 



173 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 

Tl yTHEN Spring comes laughing 

By vale and hill, 
By wind-flower walking 

And daffodil, — 
Sing stars of morning, 

Sing morning skies, 
Sing blue of speedwell, — 

And my Love's eyes. 

When comes the Summer, 

Full-leaved and strong, 
And gay birds gossip 

The orchard long, — 
Sing hid, sweet honey 

That no bee sips ; 
Sing red, red roses, — 

And my Love's lips. 

When Autumn scatters 

The leaves again. 
And piled sheaves bury 

The broad-wheeled wain, — 

VOL. I. -12 127 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 

Sing flutes of harvest 
Where men rejoice ; 

Sing rounds of reapers, — 
And my Love's voice. 

But when comes Winter 

With hail and storm, 
And red fire roaring 

And ingle warm, — 
Sing first sad going 

Of friends that part ; 
Then sing glad meeting, — 

And my Love's heart. 



178 



THE PARADOX OF TIME. 

THE PARADOX OF TIME. 
(a variation on ronsard.) 

" Le temps s^en va, le temps s'en va, via dame I 
Las ! le temps non : mats NOUS nous en allons ! '* 

nriME goes, you say? Ah no 1 
Alas, Time stays, me go ; 

Or else, were this not so, 
What need to chain the hours, 
For Youth were always ours ? 

Time goes, you say ? — ah no 1 

Ours is the eyes' deceit 
Of men whose flying feet 

Lead through some landscape low ; 
We pass, and think we see 
The earth's fixed surface flee : — 

Alas, Time stays, — we gel 

Once in the days of old. 
Your locks were curling gold, 

And mine had shamed the crow. 
Now, in the self-same stage. 
We \e reached the silver age ; 

Time goes, you say ? — ah no I 

179 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Once, when my voice was strong, 
I filled the woods with song 

To praise your " rose " and " snow " ; 
My bird, that sang, is dead ; 
Where are your roses fled ? 

Alas, Time stays, — we go I 

See, in what traversed ways, 
What backward Fate delays 

The hopes we used to know ; 
Where are our old desires ? — 
Ah, where those vanished fires ? 

Time goes, you say ? — ah no I 

How far, how far, O Sweet, 
The past behind our feet 

Lies in the even-glow ! 
Now, on the forward way. 
Let us fold hands, and pray ; 

Alas, Time stays, — ive go I 



i8o 



TO A GREEK GIRL, 



TO A GREEK GIRL. 

Al /"ITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, 
Across the years you seem to come, — 
Across the years with nymph-like head, 
And wind-blown brows unfiUeted ; 
A girlish shape that slips the bud 

In lines of unspoiled symmetry ; 
A girlish shape that stirs the blood 

With pulse of Spring, Autonoe 1 



Where'er you pass, — where'er you go, 
I hear the pebbly rillet flow ; 
Where'er you go, — where'er you pass. 
There comes a gladness on the grass ; 
You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, — 

Blithe airs that blow from down and sea ; 
You wake in me a Pan not dead, — 

Not wholly dead ! — Autonoe 1 

How sweet with you on some green sod 

To wreathe the rustic garden-god ; 

How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade 

With you to weave a basket-braid ; 
i8i 



MISCELLAhlEOUS PIECES. 

To watch across the stricken chords 
Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ; 

To woo you in soft woodland words, 
With woodland pipe, Autonoe 1 

In vain, — in vain I The years divide 
Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, 
I sit and fill my painful reams, 
And see you only in my dreams ; — 
A vision, like Alcestis, brought 

From under-lands of Memory, — 
A dream of Form in days of Thought, 

A dream, — a dream, Autonoe 1 



182 



THE DEATH OF PROCRIS. 



THE DEATH OF PROCRIS. 

A VERSION SUGGESTED BY THE SO-NAMED PICTURE 
OF PIERO DI COSIMO, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 

"PROCRIS the nymph had wedded Cephalus : 
He, till the spring had warmed to slow- 
winged days 
Heavy with June, untired and amorous, 
Named her his love ; but now, in unknown 

ways, 
His heart was gone ; and evermore his gaze 
Turned from her own, and ever farther ranged 
His woodland war ; while she, in dull amaze, 
Beholding with the hours her husband changed, 
Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god 
estranged. 



So, on a day, she rose and found him not. 

Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade 

Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot 

Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved 

glade ; 

183 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the 

braid 
Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast 
Her crimson weed ; with faltering fingers made 
Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past 
Down to the trackless wood, full pale and over- 
cast. 

And all day long her slight spear devious flew. 
And harmless swerved her arrows from their 

aim, 
For ever, as the ivory bow she drew. 
Before her ran the still unwounded game. 
Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came, 
And, lo, a hart that panted with the chase ; 
Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame, 
And swift she gat her to a leafy place. 
Thinking, " I yet may chance unseen to see his 

face." 

Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus, 

Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare. 

Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous, 

Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair. 

He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair 

Move in the covert, deeming that apart 

Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there ; 

184 



THE DEATH OF PROCRIS. 

Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart, 
Bounding above the fern, fast following up the 
hart. 

But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers, 
Shot in the throat. From out the little wound 
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn 

showers 
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground. 
None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound, 
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear, 
Till, at the dawn, the horned wood-men found 
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier, 
To lie beside the sea, — with many an uncouth 

tear. 



1 8s 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



THE PRAYER OF THE SWINE TO 
CIRCE. 

TTUDDLING they came, with shag sides 

caked of mire, — 
With hoofs fresh sullied from the troughs o'er- 

turned, — 
With wrinkling snouts, — yet eyes in which 

desire 
Of some strange thing unutterably burned, 
Unquenchable ; and still where'er She turned 
They rose about her, striving each o'er each, 
With restless, fierce imp6rtuning that yearned 
Through those brute masks some piteous tale 

to teach, 
Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power 

of speech. 



For these — Eurylochus alone escaping — 
In truth, that small exploring band had been. 
Whom wise Odysseus, dim precaution shaping, 
Ever at heart, of peril unforeseen. 
Had sent inland ; — whom then the islet- 
Queen, — 

i86 



THE PRAYER OF THE SIVINE TO CIRCE, 

The fair disastrous daughter of the Sun, — 
Had turned to likeness of the beast unclean, 
With evil wand transforming one by one 
To shapes of loathly swine, imbruted and undone. 



But " the men's minds remained," and these 

for ever 
Made hungry suppliance through the fire-red 

eyes ; 
Still searching aye, with impotent endeavour, 
To find, if yet, in any look, there lies 
A saving hope, or if they might surprise 
In that cold face soft pity's spark concealed, 
Which she, still scorning, evermore denies ; 
Nor was there in her any ruth revealed 
To whom with such mute speech and dumb words 

they appealed. 



What hope is ours — what hope / To find no 

mercy 

After much war, and many travails done .^ — 

Ah, kinder far than thy fell philtres, Circe, 

The ravening Cyclops and the Lcestrigon ! 

And O, thrice cursdd be Laertes' son, 

By ivhom, at last, we watch the days decline 

With no fair ending of the quest begun, 
187 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Condemned In sties to weary and to pine 
And with mens hearts to beat through this foul front 
of swine ! 



For us not now, — for us, alas ! no more 
The old green glamour of the glancing sea ; 
For us not now the laughter of the oar, — 
The strong-ribbed keel wherein our comrades be ; 
Not now, at even, any more shall we, 
By low-browed banks and reedy riper places. 
Watch the beast hurry and the wild fowl flee ; 
Or steering shoreward^ in the upland spaces 
Have sight of curling smoke and fair-skinned foreign 
faces. 



Alas for us / — for whom the columned houses 

We left afore4ime, cheerless must abide ; 

Cheerless the hearth where now no guest 

carouses, — 

No minstrel raises song at eventide ; 

And O, more cheerless than aught else beside, 

The wistful hearts with heavy longing full ; — 

The wife that watched us on the waning tide, — 

The sire whose eyes with weariness are dull, — 

The mother whose slow tears fall on the carded 

wool, 

1 88 



THE PRAYER OF THE SIVINE TO CIRCE. 

If swine we be, — if we indeed be swine, 
Daughter of Persd, make us swine indeed, 
Well-pleased on litter-straw to lie supine, — 
Well-pleased on mast and acorn-shales to feed, 
Stirred by all instincts of the bestial breed ; 
But O Unmerciful! O Pitiless! 
Leave us not thus with sick mens hearts to bleed! — 
To waste long days in yearning, dumb distress 
And memory of things gone, and utter hopelessness! 



Leave us at least, if not the things we were, 
At least consentient to the thing we be ; 
Not hapless doomed to loathe the forms we bear, 
And senseful roll in senseless savagery; 
For surely cursed above all cursed are we, 
And surely this the bitterest of ill ; — 
To feel the old aspirings fair and free. 
Become blind motions of a powerless will 
Through swine-like frames dispersed to swine-like 
issues still. 



But make us men again, for that thou may'st / 

Yea, make us men. Enchantress, and restore 

These grovelling shapes, degraded and debased, 

To fair embodiments of men once more ; 

Yea, by all men that ever woman bore ; 
189 



MISCELLAhlEOUS PIECES. 

Yea, e'en hy him hereafter born in pain, 
Shall draw susiainment from thy bosom's core^ 
O^er whom thy face yet kindly shall remain, 
And find its like therein, — make thou us men again ! 

Make thou us men again, — if men but groping 
That dark Hereafter which tK Olympians keep ; 
Make thou us men again, — if men but hoping 
Behind death's doors security of sleep ; — 
For yet to laugh is somewhat, and to weep ; — 
To feel delight of living, and to plough 
The salt-blown acres of the shoreless deep ; — 
Better, — yea better far all these than bow 
Foul faces to foul earth and yearn — as we do now / 

So they in speech unsyllabled. But She, 
The fair-tressed Goddess, born to be their bane, 
UpHfting straight her wand of ivory. 
Compelled them groaning to the sties again ; 
Where they in hopeless bitterness were fain 
To rend the oaken woodwork as before, 
And tear the troughs in impotence of pain, — 
Not knowing, they, that even at the door 
Divine Odysseus stood, — as Hermes told of yore. 



190 



A CASE OF CAMEOS. 



A CASE OF CAMEOS. 

AGATE. 

{The Power of Love.) 

T7IRST, in an Agate-stone, a Centaur strong, 
With square man-breasts and hide of dapple 
dun, 
His brown arms bound behind him with a thong. 
On strained croup strove to free himself from 

one, — 
A bolder rider than Bellerophon. 
For, on his back, by some strange power of art. 
There sat a laughing Boy with bow and dart, 
Who drave him where he would, and driving him, 
With that barbed toy would make him rear and 

start. 
To this was writ *' World-victor" on the rim. 

CHALCEDONY. 

{The Thefts of Mercury.) 

The next in legend bade " Beware of show I " 

'Twas graven this on pale Chalcedony. 

Here great Apollo, with unbended bow, 

His quiver hard by on a laurel tree, 

191 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

For some new theft was rating Mercury. 
Who stood with downcast eyes, and feigned dis- 
tress, 
As daring not, for utter guiltiness, 
Xo meet that angry voice and aspect joined. 
His very heel-wings drooped ; but yet, not less. 
His backward hand the Sun-God's shafts pur- 
loined. 

SARDONYX. 

(The Song of Orpheus.) 
Then, on a Sardonyx, the man of Thrace, 
The voice supreme that through Hell's portals 

stole, 
With carved white lyre and glorious song-lit face, 
(Too soon, alas ! on Hebrus' wave to roll I) 
Played to the beasts, from a great elm-tree bole. 
And lo I with half-shut eyes the leopard spread 
His lissome length ; and deer with gentle tread 
Came through the trees ; and, from a nearer 

spring. 
The prick-eared rabbit paused ; while overhead 
The stock-dove drifted downward, fluttering. 

AMETHYST. 

(The Crowning of Silenus.) 
Next came an Amethyst, — the grape in hue. 

On a mock throne, by fresh excess disgraced, 

192 



A CASE OF CAMEOS. 

With heavy head, and thyrsus held askew, 
The Youths, in scorn, had dull Silenus placed. 
And o'er him " King of Topers" they had traced. 
Yet but a King of Sleep he seemed at best, 
With wine-bag cheeks that bulged upon his breast, 
And vat-like paunch distent from his carouse. 
Meanwhile, his ass, by no respect represt. 
Munched at the wreath upon her Master's brows. 



BERYL. 

{The Sirens.) 

Lastly, with '* Pleasure" was a Beryl graven, 
Clear-hued, divine. Thereon the Sirens sung. 
What time, beneath, by rough rock-bases caven, 
And jaw-like rifts where many a green bone clung. 
The strong flood-tide, in-rushing, coiled and 

swung. 
Then, — in the offing, — on the lift of the sea, 
A tall ship drawing shoreward — helplessly. 
For, from the prow, e'en now the rowers leap 
Headlong, nor seek from that sweet fate to 

flee . . . 
Ah me, those Women-witches of the Deep 1 

VOL, I. — j^ 



J93 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 



THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 

iECROTUS. 

OPRING, — art thou come, O Spring I 

I am too sick for words ; 
How hast thou heart to sing, 
O Spring, with all thy birds ? 

Merula. 
I sing for joy to see again 
The merry leaves along the lane, 

The little bud grown ripe ; 
And look, my love upon the bough I 
Hark, how she calleth to me now, — 
" Pipe I pipe!" 

iEcROTUS. 

Ah I weary is the sun : 

Love is an idle thing ; 
But, Bird, thou restless one, 

What ails thee, wandering > 

HiRUNDO. 

By shore and sea I come and go 

To seek I know not what ; and lo I 

On no man's eaves I sit 
194 



THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 

But voices bid me rise once more, 
To flit again by sea and shore, — ' 
Flit! Flit I 

iECROTUS. 

This is Earth's bitter cup : — 

Only to seek, not know. 
But Thou, that strivest up, 

Why dost thou carol so ? 

Alauda. 
A secret Spirit gifteth me 
With song, and wing that lifteth me, ■ 

A Spirit for whose sake, 
Striving amain to reach the sky, 
Still to the old dark earth I cry, — 

*'WakeI wake I" 

iECROTUS. 

My hope hath lost its wing. 

Thou, that to Night dost call, 
How hast thou heart to sing 

Thy tears made musical ? 

Philomela. 
Alas for me ! a dry desire 
Is all my song, — a waste of fire 
That will not fade nor fail ; 
195 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

To me, dim shapes of ancient crime 
Moan through the windy ways of time, 

"Wail I wail I" 

iECROTUS. 

This is the sick man's song, — 
Mournful^ in sooth, and fit ; 

Unrest that cries " How long 1 " — 
And the Night answers it. 



196 



A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA. 



A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA. 

T^OWN where the garden grows, 

Gay as a banner, 
Spake to her mate the Rose 

After this manner : — 
*' We are the first of flowers, 

Plain-land or hilly, 
All reds and whites are ours, 

Are they not, Lily?" 

Then to the flowers I spake, — 

" Watch ye my Lady 
Gone to the leafy brake. 

Silent and shady ; 
When I am near to her, 

Lily, she knows ; 
How I am dear to her. 

Look to it, Rose." 

Straightway the Blue-bell stooped. 

Paler for pride, 

Down where the Violet drooped, 

Shy, at her side : — 
197 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

*' Sweetheart, save me and you, 
Where has the summer kist 

Flowers of as fair a hue, — 
Turkis or Amethyst ? " 

Therewith I laughed aloud, 

Spake on this wise, 
*' O little flowers so proud. 

Have ye seen eyes 
Change through the blue in them. 

Change till the mere 
Loving that grew in them 

Turned to a tear ? 

*' Flowers, ye are bright of hue. 

Delicate, sweet ; 
Flowers, and the sight of you 

Lightens men's feet ; 
Yea ; but her worth to me, 

Flowerets, even. 
Sweetening the earth to me, 

Sweeteneth heaven, 

"This, then, O Flowers, I sing; 

God, when He made ye. 

Made yet a fairer thing 

Making my Lady ; — 
198 



A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA. 

Fashioned her tenderly, 
Giving all weal to her ; — 

Girdle ye slenderly, 

Go to her, kneel to her, — 

*' Saying, ' He sendeth us, 

He the most dutiful. 
Meetly he endeth us, 

Maiden most beautiful I 
Let us get rest of you, 

Sweet, in your breast ; — 
Die, being prest of you, 

Die, being blest.' " 



199 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. 

" Vale, tmica!" 

T7 LOWERS, — that have died upon my Sweet 
Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat 
Of her young bosom under you, — 
Now will I show you such a thing 
As never, through thick buds of Spring, 

Betwixt the daylight and the dew, 
The Bird whose being no man knows — 
The voice that waketh all night through, 
Tells to the Rose. 

For lo, — a garden-place I found, 

Well filled of leaves^ and stilled of sound, 

Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ; 
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 

With faces bent and amorous ; — 
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 

With woodbine and amaracus, 
My Love I found. 

Alone she walked, — ah, well I wis, 

My heart leapt up for joy of this 1 — 

200 



A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. 

Then when I called to her her name, — 
The name, that like a pleasant thing 
Men's lips remember, murmuring, 

At once across the sward she came, — 
Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, 

And asked ever as she came, 

*^ Where hast thou stayed?" 



*' Where hast thou stayed?" — she asked as 

though 
The long years were an hour ago ; 

But I spake not, nor answered, 
For, looking in her eyes, I saw, 
A light not lit of mortal law ; 

And in her clear cheek's changeless red, 
And sweet, unshaken speaking found 

That in this place the Hours were dead, 
And Time was bound. 



" This is well done," — she said, — " in thee, 
O Love, that thou art come to me, 

To this green garden glorious ; 
Now truly shall our life be sped 
In joyance and all goodlihed, 

For here all things are fair to us, 

20I 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And none with burden is oppressed, 
And none is poor or piteous, — 
For here is Rest. 

** No formless Future blurs the sky; 
Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, 

By shrouded shapes of Yesterday ; 
Betwixt the Coming and the Past 
The flawless life hangs fixen fast 

In one unwearying To-Day, 
That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven, 

Death from the doors is thrust away. 
And here is Heaven." 

At *' Heaven " she ceased ; — and lifted up 
Her fair head like a flower-cup, 

With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow; 
Then set I lips to hers, and felt, — 
Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt. 

And past things change to painted show ; 
The song of quiring birds outbroke ; 

The lit leaves laughed, — sky shook, and lo, 
I swooned, — and woke. 

And now, O Flowers, 

— Ye that indeed are dead, — 

Now for all waiting hours, 

Well am I comforted ; 
202 



A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. 

For of a surety, now, I see, 

That, without dim distress 

Of tears, or weariness, 
My Lady, verily, awaiteth me ; 
So that until with Her I be, 

For my dear Lady's sake 

I am right fain to make 
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 
Grief for a golden garment unto me ; 

Knowing that I, at last, shall stand 

In that green garden-land, 
And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, 
Forget the grieving and the misery. 



203 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS. 

En los nidos de antano 
No hay pdjaros hogaho. 

Spanish Proverb. 

A/EA, I am passed away, I think, from this ; 

Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here^ 
But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, 

And witness ye, I go without a fear. 
Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see. 

As once I dreamed, the show of shield and 
crest, 
Gone southward to the fighting by the sea ; — 
There is no bird in any last year's nest I 



Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween. 

Grown faint and unremembered ; voices call 

High up, like misty warders dimly seen 

Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall ; 

And all things swim — as when the charger stands 

Quivering between the knees, and East and 

West 

Are filled with flash of scarves and waving 

hands ; — 

There is no bird in any last year's nest! 
204 



THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS. 

Is she a dream I left in Acquitaine ? — 

My wife Giselle, — who never spoke a word, 
Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain. 

Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I 
heard 
The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord 

Her necklace made about it ; — she that prest 
To watch me trotting till I reached the ford ; — 

There is no bird in any last year's nest ! 



Ah ! I had hoped, God wot, — had longed that she 

Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle, 
Me, coming riding by the windy lea — 

Me, coming back again to her, Giselle ; 
Yea, I had hoped once more to hear him call, 

The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest, 
Stormed at the lilies by the orchard wall ; — 

There is no bird in any last years nest ! 



But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom 1 
This Death will come, and whom he loves he 
cleaves 

Sheer through the steel and leather ; hating whom 
He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves. 

'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints, 

And weary work to age, and want for rest, 
205 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

When harness grovveth heavy, and one faints, 
With no bird left in any last year's nest ! 

Give ye good hap, then, all. For me, I lie 
Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom 
shall rest 

To keep me living, now that I must die ; — 
There is no bird in any last year's nest ! 



206 



THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH. 



THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH. 

T T NTO Seyd the vizier spake the Caliph Ab- 

dallah : — 
*• Now hearken and hear, I am weary, by Allah I 
I am faint with the mere over-running of leisure ; 
I will rouse me and rear up a palace to Pleasure I " 



To Abdallah the Caliph spake Seyd the vizier : 
" All faces grow pale if my Lord draweth near ; 
And the breath of his mouth not a mortal shall 

scoff it ; — 
They must bend and obey, by the beard of the 

Prophet 1 " 



Then the Caliph that heard, with becoming se- 

dateness, 
Drew his hand down his beard as he thought of 

his greatness ; 
Drained out the last bead of the wine in the 

chalice : 

" I have spoken, O Seyd ; I will build it, my 

palace I 

207 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

*' As a drop from the v^/ine where the wine-cup 

hath spilled it, 
As a gem from the mine, O my Seyd, I will build 

it; 

Without price, without flaw, it shall stand for a 

token 
That the word is a law which the Caliph hath 

spoken 1 '' 



Yet again to the Caliph bent Seyd the vizier : 
" Who shall reason or rail if my Lord speaketh 

clear ? 
Who shall strive with his might ? Let my Lord 

live for ever ! 
He shall choose him a site by the side of the 

river." 



Then the Caliph sent forth unto Kiir, unto 

Yemen, — 
To the South, to the North, — for the skilfullest 

freemen ; 
And soon, in a close, where the river breeze 

fanned it, 
The basement uprose, as the Caliph had planned 

it. 

208 



THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH. 

Now the courses were laid and the corner-piece 

fitted ; 
And the butments and set-stones were shapen 

and knitted, 
When lo I on a sudden the Caliph heard frowning, 
That the river had swelled, and the workmen 

were drowning. 

Then the Caliph was stirred and he flushed in his 

ire as 
He sent forth his word from Teheran to Shiraz ; 
And the workmen came new, and the palace, 

built faster. 
From the bases up-grew unto arch and pilaster. 

And the groinings were traced, and the arch-heads 
were chasen, 

When lo I in hot haste there came flying a mason, 

For a cupola fallen had whelmed half the work- 
men ; 

And Hamet the chief had been slain by the Turc'- 
men. 

Then the Caliph's beard curled, and he foamed 

in his rage as 
Once more his scouts whirled from the Tell to the 
Hedjaz ; 
VOL. I. — 14 209 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" Is my word not my word ? " cried the Caliph 

Abdallah ; 
" I will build it up yet . . . by the aiding of 

Allah/'' 



Though he spoke in his haste like King David 
before him, 

Yet he felt as he spoke that a something stole o'er 
him ; 

And his soul grew as glass, and his anger passed 
from it 

As the vapours that pass from the Pool of Ma- 
homet. 



And the doom seemed to hang on the palace no 

longer, 
Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed 

stronger ; 
Shaft, turret and spire leaped upward, diminished, 
Like the flames of a fire, —till the palace was 

finished 1 



Without price, without flaw. And it lay on the 

azure 
Like a diadem dropped from an emperor*s treasure; 

2IO 



THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH. 

And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles 

fleckless, 
Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a 

necklace. 

So the Caliph looked forth on the turret-tops 

gilded ; 
And he said in his pride, '' Is my palace not 

build ed ? 
Who is more great than I that his word can avail if 
My will is my will," — said Abdallah the Caliph. 

But lo I with the light he repented his scorning, 
For an earthquake had shattered the whole ere 

the morning ; 
Of the pearl-coloured dome there was left but a 

ruin, — 
But an arch as a home for the ring-dove to coo in. 

Shaft, turret and spire — all were tumbled and 

crumbled ; 
And the soul of the Caliph within him was 

humbled ; 
And he bowed in the dust: — ''There is none 

great but Allah ! 
I will build Him a Mosque," — said the Caliph 

Abdallah. 

211 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And the Caliph has gone to his fathers for ever, 
But the Mosque that he builded shines still by 

the river ; 
And the pilgrims up-stream to this day slacken 

sail if 
They catch the first gleam of the ^' Mosque of 

the Caliph." 



212 



/;V THE BELFRY. 
IN THE BELFRY. 

WRITTEN UNDER RETHEl's " DEATH, THE FRIEND.' 



nrOLL ! Is it night, or daylight yet? 

Somewhere the birds seem singing still, 
Though surely now the sun has set. 



Toll I But who tolls the Bell once more ? 
He must have climbed the parapet. 
Did I not bar the belfry door ? 

Who can it be ? — the Bernardine, 
That wont to pray with me of yore ? 
No, — for the monk was not so lean. 

This must be He who, legend saith. 
Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien 
And tolls a knell. — This shape is Death I 

Good-bye, old Bell I So let it be. 
How strangely now I draw my breath 1 
"What is this haze of light I see ? . . . 

In manus tuas, Domine I 

213 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



ARS VICTRIX. 

(imitated from theophile gautier.) 

V/ES ; when the ways oppose — 
When the hard means rebel, 
Fairer the work out-grows, — 
More potent far the spell. 

O Poet, then, forbear 
The loosely-sandalled verse, 

Choose rather thou to wear 
The buskin — strait and terse ; 



Leave to the tyro's hand 

The limp and shapeless style ; 
See that thy form demand 

The labour of the file. 



Sculptor, do thou discard 

The yielding clay, — consign 

To Paros marble hard 

The beauty of thy line ; — 
214 



ARS VICTRIX. 

Model thy Satyr's face 
For bronze of Syracuse ; 

In the veined agate trace 
The profile of thy Muse. 

Painter, that still must mix 
But transient tints anew, 

Thou in the furnace fix 
The firm enamel's hue ; 



Let the smooth tile receive 
Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; 

Thy Sirens blue at eve 
Coiled in a wash of wine. 



All passes. Art alone 
Enduring stays to us ; 

The Bust out-lasts the throne, 
The Coin, Tiberius ; 



Even the gods must go ; 

Only the lofty Rhyme 
Not countless years overthrow, 

Not long array of time. 
215 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Paint, chisel, then, or write ; 

But, that the work surpass, 
With the hard fashion fight, — 

With the resisting mass. 



2t6 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

" They are a school to win 
The fair French daughter to learn English in ; 

And, graced with her song, 
To make the language sweet upon her tongue." 

Ben Jonson, Underwoods. 



217 



ASf to the pipe t with rhythmic feet 
In windings of some old-world dance. 
The smiling couples cross and meet, 
Join hajids, and then in line advance. 
So, to these fair old tunes of France, 
Through all their maze of to and fro, 
The light-heeled numbers laughing go. 
Retreat, return, and ere they flee. 
One moment pause in panting row, 
And seem to say — Vos plaudite ! 



218 



ROSE-LEAVES. 

" Sans peser. — Sans r ester.** 
A KISS. 

T3 OSE kissed me to-day. 

Will she kiss me to-morrow } 
Let it be as it may, 
Rose kissed me to-day. 
But the pleasure gives way 

To a savour of sorrow ; — 
Rose kissed me to-day, — 

Will she kiss me to-morrow > 



CIRCE. 

In the School of Coquettes 

Madam Rose is a scholar : — 

O, they fish with all nets 

In the School of Coquettes I 

"When her brooch she forgets 

'Tis to show her new collar; 

In the School of Coquettes 

Madam Rose is a scholar I 
219 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 
A TEAR. 

There 's a tear in her eye, — 
Such a clear little jewel 1 

What can make her cry ? 

There 's a tear in her eye. 

" Puck has killed a big fly, — 
And it 's horribly cruel ; " 

There 's a tear in her eye, — 
Such a clear little jewel ! 



A GREEK GIFT. 

Here 's a present for Rose, 
How pleased she is looking I 

Is it verse ? — is it prose } 

Here 's a present for Rose ! 

''Plats;' ''Entries^ and '' Rdts^' — 
Why, it 's " Gouff6 on Cooking " I 

Here \s a present for Rose, 
How pleased she is looking ! 



*' urceus exit. 

I INTENDED an Ode, 

And it turned to a Sonnet. 

It began ci la mode, 

I intended an Ode ; 
220 



ROSE'LEAl^ES. 

But Rose crossed the road 
In her latest new bonnet; 

I intended an Ode ; 
And it turned to a Sonnet. 



221 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



*«PERSICOS ODI." 

T^AVUS, I detest 

Orient display ; 
Wreaths on linden drest, 
Davus, I detest. 
Let the late rose rest 

Where it fades away : - 
Davus, I detest 

Orient display. 



Naught but myrtle twine 
Therefore, Boy, for me 

Sitting 'neath the vine, — 

Naught but myrtle twine ; 

Fitting to the wine. 
Not unfitting thee ; 

Naught but myrtle twine 
Therefore, Boy, for me. 



222 



THE IVANDERER. 



THE WANDERER. 

T OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore 1 
We see him stand by the open door, 
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. 

He makes as though in our arms repelling. 
He fain would lie as he lay before ; — 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore I 

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling 
That sweet forgotten^ forbidden lore I 
E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, 
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling. 
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling. 



223 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS, 



"VITAS HINNULEO." 

\7'OU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother 
Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh^ 
It vainly strives its fears to smother ; — 



Its trembling knees assail each other 
When lizards stir the bramble dry ; — 
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 

And yet no Libyan lion I, — 

No ravening thing to rend another ; 

Lay by your tears, your tremors by — 
A Husband 's better than a brother ; 

Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 



224 



''ON LONDON stones:' 



"ON LONDON STONES/' 

/^"^N London stones I sometimes sigh 
For wider green and bluer sky ; — 
Too oft the trembling note is drowned 
In this huge city's varied sound ; — 

*' Pure song is country-born " — I cry. 

Then comes the spring, — the months go by, 
The last stray swallows seaward fly ; 
And I — I too I — no more am found 
On London stones I 

In vain I — the woods, the fields deny 
That clearer strain I fain would try ; 
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound 
By some strange law to paven ground ; 
Abroad she pouts ; — she is not shy 
On London stones ! 

VOL. I. — 15 



225 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



*' FAREWELL, RENOWN I " 

T7AREWELL, Renown ! Too fleeting flower, 
That grows a year to last an hour ; — 

Prize of the race's dust and heat, 

Too often trodden under feet, — 
Why should I court your " barren dower" ? 

Nay ; — had I Dryden's angry power, — 
The thews of Ben, — the wind of Gower, — 
Not less my voice should still repeat 
*' Farewell, Renown ! " 

Farewell 1 — Because the Muses' bower 
Is filled with rival brows that lower ; — 
Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, 
The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ; — 
But most . . . because the grapes are sour, — 
Farewell, Renown I 



226 



k 



''MORE POETS YET!' 



**MORE POETS YET I" 
(To J. L. W.) 

** IVT ^^^ ^0Qi% yet r'— I hear him say, 
Arming his heavy hand to slay ; — 
*' Despite my skill and ' swashing blow,' 
They seem to sprout where'er I go ; — 
I killed a host but yesterday I " 

Slash on, O Hercules I You may. 
Your task's, at best, a Hydra-fray; 
And though you cut, not less will grow 
More Poets yet I 

Too arrogant 1 For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May? 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ? — 
Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
Who ? There will rise, till Time decay, 
More Poets yet I 



227 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." 
(To E. G.) 

^1 riTH pipe and flute the rustic Pan 

Of old made music sweet for man ; 
And wonder hushed the warbling bird, 
And closer drew the calm-eyed^herd, — 

The rolling river slowlier ran. 

Ah I would, — ah I would, a little span, 
Some air of Arcady could fan 

This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
With pipe and flute I 

But now for gold we plot and plan ; 

And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
Apollo's self might pass unheard, 
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ; — ■ 

Not so it fared, when time began, 

With pipe and flute 1 



228 



TO A JUNE ROSE. 



TO A JUNE ROSE. 

(To A. P.) 

r\ ROYAL Rose ! the Roman dress'd 
^■^^ His feast with thee ; thy petals pressed 
Augustan brows ; thine odour fine, 
Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, 
Lent the long Thracian draught its zest. 

What marvel then, if host and guest, 
By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd, 
Half-trembled on the half-divine, 
O royal Rose I 

And yet — and yet — I love thee best 

In our old gardens of the West, 
Whether about my thatch thou twine, 
Or Hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine, 

Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, 
O royal Rose 1 



229 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



TO DAFFODILS. 
(To A. J. M.) 

r\ YELLOW flowers that Herrick sung I 
^^^ O yellow flowers that danced and swung 
In Wordsworth's verse, and now to me, 
Unworthy, from this " pleasant lea," 
Laugh back, unchanged and ever young ; — 

Ah, what a text to us overstrung. 
Overwrought, o'erreaching, hoarse of lung, 
You teach by that immortal glee, 
O yellow flowers ! 

We, by the Age's oestrus stung, 
Still hunt the New with eager tongue, 
Vexed ever with the Old, but ye. 
What ye have been ye still shall be, 
When we are dust the dust among, 
O yellow flowers 1 



230 



Oh] THE HURRY OF THIS TIME. 



ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME. 
(To R G.) 

"\ ^ riTH slower pen men used to write, 

Of old, when ' ' letters " were ' ' polite ; " 
In Anna's, or in George's days, 
They could afford to turn a phrase, 

Or trim a straggling theme aright. 

They knew not steam ; electric light 
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight ; — 
They meted out both blame and praise 
With slower pen. 

Too swiftly now the Hours take flight 1 
What 's read at morn is dead at night : 
Scant space have we for Art's delays. 
Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, 
We may not work — ah I would we might I — 
With slower pen. 



231 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



"WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED." 

(To L. B.) 

"\1 rHEN Burbadge played, the stage was bare 
Of fount and temple, tower and stair ; 

Two backswords eked a battle out ; 

Two supers made a rabble rout ; 
The Throne of Denmark was a chair I 

And yet, no less, the audience there 
Thrilled through all changes of Despair, 
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt 
When Burbadge played I 

This is the Actor's gift ; to share 

All moods, all passions, nor to care 
One whit for scene, so he without 
Can lead men's minds the roundabout, 

Stirred as of old those hearers were 
When Burbadge played I 



232 



A GREETING. 



A GREETING. 

(To W. C.) 

T) UT once or twice we met, touched hands. 
To-day between us both expands 

A waste of tumbling waters wide, — 

A waste by me as yet untried, 
Vague with the doubt of unknown lands. 

Time like a despot speeds his sands : 
A year he blots, a day he brands ; 

We walked, we talked by Thamis' side 
But once or twice. 

What makes a friend ? What filmy strands 

Are these that turn to iron bands ? 
What knot is this so firmly tied 
That naught but Fate can now divide ? — 

Ah, these are things one understands 
But once or twice 1 



233 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



AFTER WATTEAU. 
(To F. W.) 

''^MBARQUONS-NOUS.r' I seem to go 
Against my will. 'Neath alleys low 
I bend, and hear across the air — 
Across the stream — faint musi'c rare, — 
Whose " cornemuse,'' whose " chalumeau " ? 

Hark I was not that a laugh I know ? 
Who was it, hurrying, turned to show 
The galley swinging by the stair ? — 
" Embarquons-nous ! " 

The silk sail flaps, light breezes blow ; 

Frail laces flutter, satins flow ; 
You, with the love-knot in your hair, 
'* Allans, embarquons pour CytMre " ; 

You will not ? Press her, then, Pierrot, — 
" Embarquons-nous ! " 



234 



TO ETHEL 



TO ETHEL. 

(Who wishes she had lived 

"/« teacup-times of hood and hoop^ 
Or while the patch was worn.") 

*' T N teacup-times I " The style of dress 
Would suit your beauty, I confess ; 
BELiNDA-like, the patch you 'd wear ; 
I picture you with powdered hair, — 
You 'd make a charming Shepherdess ! 

And I — no doubt — could well express 
Sir Plume's complete conceitedness, — 
Could poise a clouded cane with care 
*' In teacup-times ! " 

The parts would fit precisely — yes : 
We should achieve a huge success I 
You should disdain, and I despair. 
With quite the true Augustan air ; 
But . . . could I love you more, or less, — 
"In teacup-times"? 



235 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



"O FONS BANDUSI.E." 

/^ BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, 
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere. 

To-morrow shall a kid be thine 

With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, — 
Sure sign I — of loves and battles near. 

Child of the race that butt and rear I 
Not less, alas 1 his life-blood dear 
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, 
O babbling Spring I 

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer 
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, — 
The wandering flock. This verse of mine 
Will rank thee one with founts divine ; 
Men shall thy rock and tree revere, 

O babbling Spring I 



236 



EXT REM UM TAN A IN. 



"EXTREMUM TANAIN." ' 
(To J. K.) 

O EFORE thy doors too long of late, 
O Lyce, I bewail my fate ; 
Not Don's barbarian maids, I trow, 
Would treat their luckless lovers so ; 

Thou, — thou alone art obstinate. 

Hast thou nor eyes nor ears, Ingrate I 
Hark ! how the North Wind shakes thy gate 1 
Look I how the laurels bend with snow 
Before thy doors 1 

Lay by thy pride, — nor hesitate, 

Lest Love and I grow desperate ; 

If prayers, if gifts for naught must go, 
If naught my frozen pallor show, — 

Beware 1 .... I shall not always wait 
Before thy doors 1 



237 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 



"VIXI PUELLIS." 

"X 1 /"E loved of yore, in warfare bold, 

Nor laurelless. Now all must go ; 
Let this left wall of Venus show 
The arms, the tuneless lyre of old. 

Here let them hang, the torches cold, 
The portal-bursting bar, the bow, 
We loved of yore. 

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, 
And Memphis free from Thracian snow. 
Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow. 

Smite, — smite but once that pretty scold 
We loved of yore 1 



23S 



"H^HEN I SAIV YOU LAST, ROSE." 



"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE." 

^1 rHEN I saw you last, Rose, 
You were only so high ; — 
How fast the time goes 1 



Like a bud ere it blows, 
You just peeped at the sky, 
When I saw you last, Rose I 



Now your petals unclose, 
Now your May-time is nigh ; 
How fast the time goes I 



And a life, — how it grows ! 
You were scarcely so shy, 
When I saw you last, Rose 1 



In your bosom it shows 
There 's a guest on the sly; 
(How fast the time goes 1) 
239 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

Is it Cupid ? Who knows I 
Yet you used not to sigh, 
When I saw you last, Rose ; — 
How fast the time goes 1 



240 



ON A NAhlKIN PLATB. 



ON A NANKIN PLATE 

** A H me, but it might have been ! 

Was there ever so dismal a fate ? 
Quoth the little blue mandarin. 



*' Such a maid as was never seen 1 

She passed, tho' I cried to her ^Wait/ — 

Ah me, but it might have been 1 



** I cried, * O my Flower, my Queen, 
Be mine 1 ' 'Twas precipitate," — 
Quoth the little blue mandarin, — 



" But then . . she was just sixteen, — 
Long-eyed, — as a lily straight, — 
Ah me, but it might have been 1 



" As it was, from her palankeen, 

She laughed — ' You 're a week too late I ' " 

(Quoth the little blue mandarin.) 

VOL. I. — i6 241 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

*' That is why, in a mist of spleen, 
I mourn on this Nankin Plate. 
Ah me, but it might have been I " — 
Quoth the little blue mandarin. 



242 



i\ 



FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. 



FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. 

r\ SINGER of the field and fold, 

Theocritus 1 Pan's pipe was thine, 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 



For thee the scent of new-turned mould, 
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, 
O Singer of the field and fold 1 



Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, — 
The beechen bowl made glad with wine 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 



Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, — 
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, 
O Singer of the field and fold 1 



And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled 
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . . 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 

243 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS, 

Alas for us ! Our songs are cold ; 
Our Northern suns too sadly shine: 
O Singer of the field and fold, 
Thine was the happier Age of Gold 1 



244 



" TU NE QUAESIERIS: 



"TU NE QUAESIERIS." 

C EEK not, O Maid, to know 
(Alas I unblest the trying 1) 
When thou and I must go. 



No lore of stars can show. 
What shall be, vainly prying, 
Seek not, O Maid, to know. 



Will Jove long years bestow ? — 
Or is 't with this one dying, 
That thou and I must go. 



Now, — when the great winds blow, 
And waves the reef are plying? . . 
Seek not, O Maid, to know. 



Rather let clear wine flow. 
On no vain hope relying; 
When thou and I must go 
245 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

Lies dark ; — then be it so. 
Now, — noip, churl Time is flying ; 
Seek not, O Maid, to know 
When thou and I must go. 



246 



THE PRODIGALS, 



THE PRODIGALS. 

**"PRINCES I — and you, most valorous, 
Nobles and Barons of all degrees I 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of* us, — 
Beggars that come from the over-seas 1 
Nothing yje ask or of gold or fees ; 
Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; 

Lo^ — for the surcote's hem we seize, — 
Give us — ah 1 give us — but Yesterday 1 " 



" Dames most delicate, amorous I 
Damosels blithe as the belted bees 1 

Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 
Beggars that come from the over-seas I 
Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 

Weary are we, and worn, and gray ; 

Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your 
knees, — 

Give us — ah I give us — but Yesterday I " 



" Damosels — Dames, be piteous I " 

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway 

trees.) 

247 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

*' Hear us, O Knights magnanimous I " 

(But the knights pricked on in their pano- 
plies.) 
Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, 

But only to beat on the breast and say : — 
" Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 

Give us — ah I give us — but Yesterday 1 '' 



ENVOY. 

Youth, take heed to the prayer of these 
Many there be by the dusty way, — 

Many that cry to the rocks and seas 
** Give us — ah I give us — but Yesterday 1 



248 



OhI A FAN. 



ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE 
MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR. 

r^HICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, 

Painted by Carlo Vanloo, 
Loves in a riot of light, 

Roses and vaporous blue ; 

Hark to the dainty frou-frou! 
Picture above, if you can, 

Eyes that could melt as the dew, — - 
This was the Pompadour's fan I 



See how they rise at the sight. 

Thronging the CEil de Bceuf through, 

Courtiers as butterflies bright. 
Beauties that Fragonard drew, 
Talon-rougCf falbala, queue. 

Cardinal, Duke, — to a man, 
Eager to sigh or to sue, — 

This was the Pompadour's fan 1 



Ah, but things more than polite 

Hung on this toy, voye\-vous! 
249 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

Matters of state and of might, 
Things that great ministers do ; 
Things that, may be, overthrew 

Those in whose brains they began ; 
Here was the sign and the cue, — - 

This was the Pompadour's fan 1 



ENVOY. 

Where are the secrets it knew ? 

Weavings of plot and of plan } 
— But where is the Pompadour, too } 

This was the Pompadour's Fan I 



250 



A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH, 



A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH 

of the Spanish Armada. 

"T^ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims; 

He had sworn for a year he would sack us; 
With an army of heathenish names 

He was coming to fagot and stack us ; 

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 
And shatter our ships on the main ; 

But we had bold Neptune to back us, — 
And where are the galleons of Spain ? 



His carackes were christened of dames 

To the kirtles whereof he would tack us'; 
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, 

He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; 

Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again, 

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, — 
For where are the galleons of Spain ? 



Let his Majesty hang to St. James 
The axe that he whetted to hack us ; 

251 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

He must play at some lustier games 
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; 
To his mines of Peru he would pack us 

To tug at his bullet and chain ; 

Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us I 

But where are the galleons of Spain ? 



ENVOY. 

Gloriana I — the Don may attack us 
"Whenever his stomach be fain ; 

He must reach us before he can rack us, . . 
And where are the galleons of Spain ? 



252 



I 



A BALLAD OF HEROES. 



A BALLAD OF HEROES. 

" Now all your victories are in vaiti" 

Mary F. Robinson. 

73 ECAUSE you passed, and now are not, — 
Because, in some remoter day, 

Your sacred dust from doubtful spot 
Was blown of ancient airs away, — 
Because you perished, — must men say 

Your deeds were naught, and so profane 
Your lives with that cold burden ? Nay, 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain I 



Though, it may be, above the plot 
That hid your once imperial clay. 

No greener than o'er men forgot 
The unregarding grasses sway ; — 
Though there no sweeter is the lay 

From careless bird, — though you remain 
Without distinction of decay, — 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain I 

No. For while yet in tower or cot 
Your story stirs the pulses' play ; 
2S3 



ESS/lYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS, 

And men forget the sordid lot — 
The sordid care, of cities gray ; — 
While yet, beset in homelier fray, 

They learn from you the lesson plain 
That Life may go, so Honour stay, — 

The deeds you wrought are not in vain I 

ENVOY. 

Heroes of old I I humbly lay 
The laurel on your graves again ; 

"Whatever men have done, men may, — 
The deeds you v^rought are not in vain. 



254 



THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH. 



THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH, 

A CROSS the noisy street 
"^ I hear him careless throw 
One warning utterance sweet ; 
Then faint at first, and low, 
The full notes closer grow ; 
Hark I what a torrent gush 1 

They pour, they overflow — 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush 1 



What trick, what dream's deceit 

Has fooled his fancy so 
To scorn of dust and heat ? 

I, prisoned here below. 

Feel the fresh breezes blow •, 
And see, thro' flag and rush, 

Cool water sliding slow — 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush 1 

Sing on. What though thou beat 
On that dull bar, thy foe 1 

Somewhere the green boughs meet 
Beyond the roofs a-row ; 
255 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

Somewhere the blue skies show, 
Somewhere no black walls crush 

Poor hearts with hopeless woe — ■ 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush 1 



ENVOY. 

Bird, though they come, we know, 
The empty cage, the hush; 

Still, ere the brief day go. 
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush 1 



256 



THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE. 



THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE. 

T^O one in Eastern clime, — 'tis said, — 
There came a man at eve with " Lo I 

Friend, ere the day be dimmed and dead, 
Hast thou a mind to feast, and know 
Fair cates, and sweet wine's overflow?*' 

To whom that other fain replied — 

" Lead on. Not backward I nor slow ; — 

Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?" 



Thereon the bidder passed and led 
To where, apart from dust and glow, 

They found a board with napery spread, 
And gold, and glistering cups a-row. 

*•' Eat," quoth the host, yet naught did show. 

To whom his guest — " Thy board is wide ; 
But barren is the cheer, I trow ; 

Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ?" 



'^ Eat," quoth the man not less, and fed 
From meats unseen, and made as though 
VOL. I. — 17 257 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

He drank of wine both white and red. 

*' Eat, — ere the day to darkness grow. 

Short space and scant the Fates bestow I 
"What time his guest him wondering eyed, 

Muttering in wrath his beard below — 
" Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ?" 

ENVOY. 

Life, — 'tis of thee they fable so. 

Thou bidd'st us eat, and still denied, 
Still fasting, from thy board we go : — 

*' Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ?" 



258 



'»T//f BALLAD OF IMITATION. 



THE BALLAD OF IMITATION. 

C'est imiter qitelqii^m que de planter des choux.'" 

Alfred de Musset. 

TF they hint^ O Musician, the piece that you 
played 
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr ; 
That the ballad you sing is but merely "con- 
veyed " 
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells 

of yore ; 
That there 's nothing, in short, in the words or 
the score 
That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering 
Jew"; 
Make answer — Beethoven could scarcely do 
more — 
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too I 

If they tell you. Sir Artist^ your light and your 
shade 
Are simply " adapted " from other men's lore ; 
That — plainly to speak of a ^' spade " as a 
"spade" — 
You 've " stolen " your grouping from three or 
from four ; 

259 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

That (however the writer the truth may de- 
plore), 
'Twas Gainsborough painted /our '* Little Boy 
Blue " ; 
Smile only serenely — though cut to the core — 
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too I 

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed 

If they whisper your Epic — "Sir Eperon 
d'Or" — 
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed 

In a tissue that 's taken from Morris's store; 
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore 
That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that 
you do ; 
Take heart — though your Pegasus' withers be 
sore — 
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too I 



PosTSCRiPTUM. — And you, whom we all so adore, 

Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so 

new I — 

One word in your ear. There were Critics 

before . . . 

And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too 1 



260 



THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME. 



THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME. 

"X "\ yHEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut, 

In November fogs, in December snows, 
"When the North Wind howls, and the doors are 
shut, — 
There is place and enough for the pains of 

prose ; 
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn 
blows. 
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, 

And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, 
Then hey I — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 



When the brain gets dry as an empty nut. 

When the reason stands on its squarest toes, 

When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal 

cut," — 

There is place and enough for the pains of 

prose ; 

But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows. 

And the young year draws to the "golden prime," 

261 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, — 
Then hey I — for the ripple of laughing rhyme \ 

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant- 
strut, 

In a changing quarrel of '^Ayes " and " Noes," 
In a starched procession of " If and '^ But,'' — 

There is place and enough for the pains of 
prose ; 

But whenever a soft glance softer grows 
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, 

And the secret is told *' that no one knows," — 
Then hey 1 — for the ripple of laughing rhyme I 

ENVOY. 

In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and 

woes. 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
Then hey I — for the ripple of laughing rhyme 1 



I 



262 



"O NAVISr 



*'0 NAVIS." 

OHIP, to the roadstead rolled, 

What dost thou ? — O, once more 

Regain the port. Behold 1 
Thy sides are bare of oar, 
Thy tall mast wounded sore 

Of Africus, and see, 
What shall thy spars restore I — 

Tempt not the tyrant sea I 

What cable now will hold 
When all drag out from shore I 

What god canst thou, too bold, 
In time of need implore 1 
Look I for thy sails flap o'er, 

Thy stiff shrouds part and flee, 
Fast — fast thy seams outpour, — 

Tempt not the tyrant sea I 

What though thy ribs of old 

The pines of Pontus bore ! 

Not now to stern of gold 

Men trust, or painted prore I 
263 



ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 

Thou, or thou count'stit store 
A toy of winds to be, 

Shun thou the Cyclads' roar, — = 
Tempt not the tyrant sea I 

ENVOY. 

Ship of the State, before 

A care, and now to me 
A hope in my heart's core, — 

Tempt not the tyrant sea I 



264 



I 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 

(after HOLBEIN.) 

" Contra vim MoRTiS 

Non est medicamen in hortis" 

T T E is the despots' Despot. All must bide, 

Later or soon, the message of his might; 
Princes and potentates their heads must hide, 
Touched by the awful sigil of his right ; 
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait 
And pours a potion in his cup of state ; 
The stately Queen his bidding must obey ; 
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray ; 
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith-— 
" Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play.'' 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, 

He draweth down j before the arm^d Knight 

With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride ; 

He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight; 

The Burgher grave he beckons from debate ; 

Ke hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, 

265 



ESSy^YS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS, 

Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay ; 
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay; 
E'en to the pyx the Priest he foUoweth, 
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay . 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



All things must bow to him. And woe betide 
The Wine-bibber, — the Roisterer by night ; 
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, 
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite ; 
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, 
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate ; 
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay ; 
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey 
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth : — 
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . . 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



He hath no pity, — nor will be denied. 
When the low hearth is garnished and bright, 
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide, 
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight ; 
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate : — 
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, 
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ; 
Nay, the tired Ploughman, — at the sinking ray, — 

266 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 

In the last furrow, — feels an icy breath, 

And knows a hand hath turned the team astray 

There is no King more terrible than Death. 

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, 
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, 
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, 
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright ; 
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate ; 
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate ; 
He hath no grace for weakness and decay : 
The tender Wife, the. Widow bent and gray, 
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, — 
All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



ENVOY. 

Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late, 

I sang of Prodigals and lost estate, 

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay ; 

But know not less that there must come a day, — 

Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, — 

When thine own heart shall speak to thee and 

say, — 
There is no King more terrible than Death. 



267 



When Finis comes, the Book we close, 

And somewhat sadly. Fancy goes, 

With backward step, from stage to stage 
Of that accomplished pilgri?nage . . . 

The thorn lies thicker thaji the rose I 

There is so much that no one knows, — 
So much un-reached that none suppose ; 

What flaws ! what faidts ! — on every page, 
When Finis comes. 

Still, — they must pass t The swift Tide flows. 
Though not for all the laurel grows. 
Perchance, in this be-slatidered age. 
The worker, mainly, witts his wage ; — 
And Time will sweep both friends and foes 
When Finis comes I 



268 



NOTES. 



269 



NOTES. 



" Ensign (^Bragg's) made a terrible clangotir!'' — Page 23. 

DESPITE its suspicious appropriateness in this case, 
" Bragg's " regiment of Foot-Guards really existed ; 
and was ordered to Flanders in April, 1742. (See Gentle- 
man's Magaziney 1742, i. 217.) 



** Porto-Bello at last was ta'enJ^ — Page 24. 

Porto Bello was taken in November, 1739. But Vice- 
Admiral Vernon's despatches did not reach England until 
the following March. (See Gentleman^ s Magazine^ 1740, i. 
1 24, et seq. ) 

♦' In the fresh contours of his ' Milkmaid's * face" — Page 28 

See the Enraged Musician, an engraving of which was 
published in November of the following year (1741). To 
annotate this Ballad more fully would be easy ; but the 
reader will perhaps take the details for granted. In answer 
to some inquiries, it may, however, be stated that there is 
no foundation in fact for the story. 

** A7t Incident in the Life of Frangois BoucherP — Page 37. 

See Boucher, by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie die XVIIP 
Sihle {Cinqui^me Serie), and Charles Blanc, Histoire des 
Peintres de toutes les Ecoles. 

" The scene, a woody — Page 37. 

The picture referred to is Le Panier Mysterieux by F. 
Boucher; engraved by R. Gaillard. 



NOTES. 

" And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures!'* — Page 38. 
See Les Caradlres de La BRUYfeRE, De Vhomme. 

^^ Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." — Page 39. 

** Cetait le beau temps ou Camargo trouvait ses jupes trop 
longues pour danser la gargouilladeV — Ars^ne Houssaye. 

" The grass he called ' too green.'' " — Page 39. 

" // trouvait la nature trop verte et mal eclairee. Et son 
ami Lancret, le peintre des salons h la 7node, lui repotidait : 
*^Je suis de votre sentiment, la nature manque d'harmonie et 
de seduction' " — Charles Blanc. 

"Nay, — *twas a j^;/f <7/'Sainte-Aulaire." — Page 54. 

It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the 
Duchess of Maine surnamed her *' vieux berger,''* to say that 
he is guiltless of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and 
the similar pieces in these Proverbs, the author is alone re- 
sponsible. In the Secrets of the Heart, however, he has, 
without attempting to revive the persons, borrowed the 
names of the charming heroines of A quoi rtvent les Jeunes 
Filles. 

" Some moneyed mourner's ' love or pride* " — Page 165. 

" Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; Behold his love or pride ! " 

Childe Harold, iv. 103. 

"A bolder rider than BellerophonV — Page 191. 

" Eques ipso melior Bellerophonte." — Hor. iii. 12. 
272 



NOTES. 

" The Thefts of Mercury." — Page 191. 

" Te, boves oHm nisi reddidisses 
Per dolum amotas, puerum minaci 
Voce dum terret, viduus pharetra 

Risit Apollo." — HoR. i. 10. 

" T^ey are a school to win.'" — Page 217. 

In view of the prolonged popularity which has attended 
the use of these old French forms in England and America, 
the following dates may here be preserved. Some of the 
Triolets at p. 219 appeared in the Graphiciox May 23, 1874; 
the Rondea7c at p. 225 and the Ballade at p. 247 in Evening 
Hours for May 1876 ; the Villa?telle at p, 239 in Proverbs in 
Porcelain, May 1877 ; the Chant Royal at p. 265 in the Ar- 
chitect for July 14, 1877 ; and the Ballade h double refrain at 
p. 261 in Belgravia for January 1878. 

" Persicos odi." — Page 222. 

The following " Pocket Version " was appended to this, 
when it first appeared in the second edition of Proverbs in 
Porcelain, 1878 : — 

" Davus, I detest 

Persian decoration ; 
Roses and the rest, 
Davus, I detest. 
Simple myrtle best 

Suits our modest station ; — 
Davus, I detest 

Persian decoration." 

" On London Stones." — Page 225. 
Lope de Vega and Ilurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets 
on Sonnet-making; Voiture imitated them as regards the 
Rondeau. Here is a paraphrase of Voiture: — 
VOL. I.— 18 273 



NOTES. 

You bid me try, Blue-Eyes, to write 
A Rondeau. What ! — forthwith ? — to-night ? 
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true ; — 
But thirteen lines ! — and rhymed on two ! 
" Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight ! 

Still, there are five lines, — ranged aright. 
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright 
My easy Muse. They did, till you — 
You bid me try ! 

That makes them eight. The port 's in sight ; - 
*Tis all because your eyes are bright ! 
Now just a pair to end in " oo," — 
When maids command, what can't we do I 
Behold !— the Rondeau, tasteful, light, 
You bid me try ! 



t 



274 



I APR 22 1904 



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